Her Name
by Rosebug
Summary: "Once upon a time" is how Siv would have chosen her tale to start. Since childhood, she has been enchanted by stories of great heroes and witches, dragon riders and kings. And it is this fascination that leads her, trapped into an arranged marriage, to cut off her hair and join Galbatorix's army. But there is no true glory to be found in war. And Siv will learn that the hard way.
1. Her Name, Lonely

"And then the Urgal charged!" Shouted Bera, waving her hands violently. "The tips of its horns—huge, bull horns, mind you—flying straight at me. Too close to shoot now, too close to do anything but watch it—" she hiccupped, "watch it gore me! So what do I do? Tell me, my dear, sweet, beloved, most crunchy morsel Siv: What do I do?"

Siv's tiny, ornate chair wobbled as she stood on it. She bobbed, crouching low, arms spread for balance, then straightened up and yelled to every single person in the crowded ballroom, none of whom had any idea who she was or why she was suddenly disturbing their dignified dancing in such an undignified manner, "Killed it! Killed it with your bare hands! Ripped its horns right off its head and drank its blood like a rabid squirrel!" She began to laugh, stumbling and nearly falling from the force of her demented seizure. Everyone stared. The dancing trailed off. Even the minstrels stopped playing.

Bera clapped once, shouted, "Olé!" and pulled Siv back onto the ground. After a few confused glances and angry whispers, the party continued.

Siv sat down, still giggling. "We are so incredibly drunk."

"Indeed," said Bera. "I rather like it."

Siv nodded, laughing uncontrollably for no reason whatsoever.

Like the stately couples glaring at them, Siv and Bera were nobles. Unlike those couples, however, they hated the fact, especially on nights such as these when they were forced into attending inevitably boring dances. So, instead of dancing, the two friends spent the time pretending they were daring heroes just returned from adventures and telling the wildest stories they could imagine as loudly as they possibly could. Needless to say, they rarely received any offers to dance from the many nobles' sons who also attended the balls.

"I don't understand it," Siv said, sobering and looking at the dancing couples skeptically.

"What?" Bera asked.

Siv was sliding down into a deep slouch. Feeling it was too much work to lift her arms and elaborate, she kicked her foot limply at the dancers and grunted, "You know, just 'it.'"

"What is 'it,' my dear Siv?" Bera asked again, looking at her friend with mock-wisdom. "'It' could be referring to many things. The meaning of life, for example. Why the sun sets and rises? How to calculate the velocity of a coconut-laden sparrow? Why no one ever dances with you? Well, that's obviously because you're drunk."

"No!" Siv said, so low in her chair now that her back rested on the seat. "How can they look so happy? I don't understand."

Bera glanced in the direction of the dancing nobles and laughed. "What, that's all? Simple. They're social butterflies, Siv—graceful, fashionable, vapid, and beautiful. And shallow. And generally just plain stupid. This," she gestured pointedly at the bright colors and cheerful minstrels and new dresses, "is their natural habitat. It's where they find their mates." She directed Siv's gaze to the door, where a smiling man led a giggling woman outside, undoubtedly for a bit of "fresh air." Siv frowned and finally slipped all the way off her chair, landing roughly on the cold floor beneath. "They're not truly human, not like you and I, these butterflies of the social variety. They are everything we're not."

"What are we, then?" Siv asked, slowly working her way back onto the seat and leaning her cheek against her gloved hand.

Bera paused. "Hmm. Good question. We are…what _are_ we? We're not graceful as they are, not fashionable or beautiful. Well," she smiled at Siv innocently, "at least _you're_ not."

"Thanks."

"Anytime. You know, if I had to guess, I'd say we were antisocial butterflies. Look at us, huddled in a corner, hissing at any who come to close."

Siv raised her eyebrows. "More like antisocial crypt moths."

"Exactly," Bera laughed, glancing over Siv's shoulder at the party beyond. Suddenly she groaned, hiding her face in her hands. "By the gods, Siv, why did you have to be brought into this world by such a meddlesome arse?"

"What are you…?" Siv trailed off, turning to see what Bera was looking at. Walking toward them, smiling and leading a handsome, young man, was Siv's father. Instantly, she felt heat flood her entire face and turned quickly back to Bera. "Hide me!" She whispered urgently.

"Where?" Bera asked, her eyes wide in a combination of mirth and panic.

Her father was coming quickly. He was getting very close now. But he was facing the man, not looking at them. Siv dove at her friend, grabbing a handful of her long, blue gown. She tugged, lifting the hem high. Bera yelled as her legs were exposed to the entire room. Paying her protests no heed, Siv jumped from her chair, slid beneath the small table that separated them, pulled herself up close to Bera's naked legs, and let the dress fall back down to cover her, panic lending speed to her drunken limbs.

"What are you _doing_?" Bera hissed at her, half-laughing.

"Shhh!" They fell silent. The now muffled sound of music played in the background as Siv tried to stay perfectly still. She held her breath and locked her eyes closed. Seconds passed.

Nothing happened.

And then Siv heard, as though from far away, two pairs of footsteps. They stopped suddenly, and a few quiet words were exchanged. Siv fought against the urge to peek.

_Did they leave?_ She wondered, surprised that her ad hoc sanctuary had worked. As she began to lift the dress again, Bera's knee moved violently and struck her on the nose. She cried out and bit her lip, wondering if they had heard. She clutched at her face, eyes watering. Then a single pair of footsteps moved slowly closer to her. When they stopped, she knew her father was standing right above her. Her heart pounded, hoping he would not notice the strange bulge in Bera's dress.

"Siv," her father hissed. "Get out from there now, you fool!" Siv sighed and crawled awkwardly from her hiding place, tripping a bit on the slippery fabric. She got to her feet, smoothing out her own dress as she stood. Her father was nearly a head shorter than she. He was a portly little man, fashionably dressed and sporting a very curly moustache.

"Sorry," Siv mumbled.

"Good," he said, looking her up and down and running a finger along his greased moustache. "Hopefully he didn't see that."

"_He_, father?"

His shining face broke into an excited smile. "There is a man you must meet, my dear." He said, jerking his round head in the direction of the handsome man who had been accompanying him earlier. "He is the son of a duke—a _duke_, Siv! Oh," he squealed, speaking so quickly in his breathy voice that Siv's drunken mind had a hard time keeping up. "Darling, you _must_ be at your most charming tonight. This is a rare chance we cannot afford to miss. The man is ever so rich—just look at his clothes, the finest silks—and…" he continued to prattle on about this duke's son, but Siv gave up on trying to listen and feign excitement. Her father, like most noble fathers, saw his daughter as naught but a marriageable stepladder that would hoist him to greater status and fortune. Their family name and position, that of the king's own treasurer, used to hold great weight, but of late that power, that wealth, was slipping away.

_What a pity I am not a more beautiful and charismatic stepladder_, she thought bitterly.

"Oh," her father said, smiling at her sadly. "It's a pity you're not more beautiful or charismatic, my dear little Siv. Then it would be so much easier to find a husband for you."

Siv's lip trembled slightly, and she swung her head to face the ground. _I'm a human. I'm not your ladder. I'm not your little pet crypt moth. I'm a seventeen-year-old, living, breathing human!_

Her father took her hand and began to lead her over to the man. She reached out to Bera with her free hand and silently mouthed the words _help me_. Bera just shrugged and waved.

As they drew closer to the duke's son, Siv felt a trickle of sweat run down the back of her neck. His silky black hair and calm grey eyes intimidated her. He was quite handsome, and she had no idea what to say to him.

They came to a stop, and the man looked up, his flat eyes meeting hers. He looked nothing more than bored.

"Here, Lord Byron. I present to you my daughter Siv."

Lord Byron nodded at her, his expression still impassive. "Well met."

"Well met," Siv agreed. There was a long, awkward silence.

"Well then, my dear," said her father at last. "Why don't you invite the lord to dance?"

"Would you like to dance a song, my lord?" Siv asked, shame turning her cheeks bright red.

He shrugged and took her hand, leading her onto the dance floor.

_If I stumble_, Siv thought, _I swear to the gods that I will cut off my own feet._

As he wrapped his hand around her waist, her stomach gave a sharp jerk. They danced in silence, Siv watching her feet carefully. When she finally dared to glance up into his face, he was staring at something over her shoulder. They twirled around, and she tried to spot what he was looking at. It was Bera, slouching in her chair and picking at her fingernails. Her heart sank.

_He's staring at another girl. Of course he is. Of course he would be. Bera is beautiful, especially when she's being compared to me._ She watched him watching Bera for the rest of the dance. Her tiny nose was so much daintier than Siv's long one, her blue eyes so much clearer than Siv's own brown. Her figure so much fuller and so much rounder. Siv looked down at her feet again.

The song ended at last. Siv dropped the man's hand and ran away without looking at him, mumbling something about fresh air.

When she was a good distance away from him, she slowed to a walk. Without thought, she ran her fingers through her long, wavy brown hair. Her hair was the only thing she had ever truly liked about her appearance. She cradled its softness, twirling a lock around and around her index finger. A hand grabbed her arm and twirled her around. It was Bera, smiling at her as she always did. Siv smiled back.

"Didn't like him, I take it," Bera said as they walked around the edges of the large room.

"Good guess," said Siv.

"Your daring escape clued me in. And speaking of daring escapes, when shall we make ours? This place is going to stifle me to death."

"What would we do if we left?"

"Sleep," suggested Bera.

"Well, as long as we're talking of daring escapes and dastardly villains," said Siv, turning to face Bera, "why don't we go on an adventure? We always speak of it, but we never do, and I'm drunk enough right now to think such a thing is possible."

Bera laughed. "All right. Where would you like to start? Wrestling an Urgal? Riding a dragon? Stealing Galbatorix's crown right off his creepy, little head?"

"I think," said Siv, "that before we can take on any of those fine quests, we'll need a sword." The two stopped and stared at each other, evil grins forming on both their faces.

"Kneel," said Bera in a low, solemn voice. Siv knelt. "Siv, daughter of Alfhild, I charge you with the sacred task of relieving one of these many noble men of his sword. Do you accept this quest?"

"I do," whispered Siv.

"Then I dub thee Sir Siv. Go now and fulfill your destiny," said Bera, tapping her once on each shoulder with her index finger.

Siv rose and smiled at Bera, her heart pounding. Somehow, this seemed perfectly sane and good. A tiny part of her that was not drunk out of its mind told her that she was being stupid and that stealing a sword from a noble was illegal and would likely see her in the stocks. But the rest of her said eagerly that this was her quest and completing it would make her a hero.

_And once I'm a hero_, she thought, _everyone will look up to me and respect me and admire me. And maybe someone will even love me._

She looked around for a suitable target. When she spotted a dark man sitting alone in a corner of the room, sword hanging from his belt, she beamed like a delighted child.

She circled around the room until she was behind him. He was slouching low in his seat.

_Good_, she thought. _He's asleep._ She crouched down on her hands and knees and crawled toward him, being as quiet as she could. She was right behind him now. Glancing around the room to make sure no one was looking, she reached forward. Slowly, carefully her hand moved toward the sword. Her heart pounded in her chest. She was so close! So close! So close to being a hero! So close to being loved! At last, her shaking hand touched the hilt. She could hear the man's breathing. She pulled. Gently, gently, slowly, carefully, the sword slid from its sheath. It was almost out!

A hand clamped hard around her wrist. She gasped and tugged violently, trying to free herself and the sword, fighting desperately for her only chance at happiness.

"What are you doing?" asked a voice from above her.

She looked up, her eyes wide. The sword's owner was very much awake and was glaring at her with dark eyes. Her shaking fingers dropped the sword. It seemed to fall away, away, away from her until it finally clattered to the floor with an unbearably loud crash. The stupidity and danger of what she was doing came hurtling down on her all at once. She struggled against the man who held her, but his grip tightened. She let out a moan and went limp, looking into the man's face. He was perhaps two years older than she, with long dark hair and excruciatingly hard eyes. Siv couldn't move. The man released her hand and it fell to the floor like the sword. She couldn't find the breath to answer his question.

A pair of soft hands appeared beneath her arms and pulled her to her feet. Bera had come to save her.

"Don't mind her," said Bera to the man. "She doesn't really exist. She's a figment of your imagination designed to keep you on your toes. Um, so am I, in fact. Well, I guess our job is done here. Farewell!" She fled, pulling Siv away from the noble.

Only when they were outside, away from all who might apprehend them, did they stop running. Siv fell into the grass, panting, still frozen from fear. Bera sat by her head.

"Siv, you fool," she said. "You have failed in your quest. The world is doomed."

Siv laughed a nervous little laugh, but as Bera turned away from her to look at the clouded sky, she wept violently with a sorrow stronger than she had ever felt before. What was wrong with her? She was not usually so lonely.

_No, that's not true. I am lonely. I'm always this lonely, but I hide it! And today this damned party and all its damned drink won't let me!_

They lay together on the grass in silence, Bera smiling at the night's beauty and Siv crying at its darkness.

After a time, Siv's eyes ran dry, and she stood up. The two began to walk in the direction of their homes. No sooner had they reached the garden of the estate that had hosted the party, however, than a girlish giggle stopped them. They looked around for its source, but saw nothing. They heard it again, and this time they were able to track its origin to a flower bush a few feet off. The bush rustled. Next to it lay a pile of discarded clothes. Siv and Bera grinned sheepishly at each other as they understood. Siv looked back at the clothes. A flash of silver caught her eye. She walked closer. Resting atop the pile was a sword. She was running forward before she realized it. Without thinking, she grabbed the sword from atop the pile and fled back to Bera, clutching the weapon to her chest as a mother would her newborn child.

When Siv reached her home, having said farewell to Bera, she ran straight into her room and hid the sword under her bed. Before she hid it from sight, she whispered one word to it gently.

"Please."

_Please grant my impossible wish. Please let my life have some meaning. Please, I am begging you…just…don't let me be alone!_

She let the sword slip away into the darkness beneath her bed.

When she finally fell asleep, a thousand shifting nightmares attacked her, each the same but for one small detail. A boy stood over her, laughing, laughing at her for her helplessness, her foolishness, her ugliness. But the boy's face kept changing, and each time it changed, she recognized it, recognized the boy himself. Each time she would call out to him, and each time he would begin the laughing again and when she had fallen to the ground and cried and cried and cried, he would change, always leaving with some pretty girl from the ball. Once the boy turned into the noble who had danced with her, and he too laughed. But no matter how many times the boy changed and laughed, she still called out to him, begging him to love her. Love her!

_Love me!_

And the boy changed again, this time into the dark man from the ball. She called it to him:

_Love me! Love me!_

Silence. The laughing had stopped. The man reached toward her, sword in hand, offering it to her, giving it to her. But the moment she touched it, it fell away, away, and she felt a sharp pain in her chest, just below her heart. She reached for him, but he turned and took the hand of a pretty blonde girl in a blue dress. Such a beautiful girl, such a perfect girl. The girl opened her mouth and the laughing began again. Siv fell again, cried again, but this time her tears were red and sticky and hot, and this time she recognized the girl as Bera. The man turned, still holding Bera's hand, and together they walked away, leaving her curled in a pool of red tears. The pain in her chest grew and grew and grew and grew until at last, her whole body covered in blood, she…

… woke up.

She was in her room.

It was morning.

She was alone.


	2. Her Name, Bride

Siv lay stretched across her soft bed on her stomach, feet dangling off one side. Fresh light poured in from her open window, illuminating the ungodly mess that was her room. Books were strewn all about the floor, on her table and shelves, and even on her bed itself. There were more books than there was floor, more books than anything. Indeed, books were the room's only decorations. The book Siv read now, like all the rest, told the story of a daring hero slaying the monster, saving the girl, riding the dragon and having other such adventures. As Siv reached the story's end (apparently, they all lived happily ever after), she flipped over onto her back and picked up another book at random. Instead of opening it, however, she continued to stare at the ceiling, not really seeing anything.

Three days had passed since the ball, and yet Siv's insides still squirmed whenever she thought about it.

_Getting drunk only ever seems like a bad idea when you're finally sober the day after_, she thought.

The sword was still safely tucked away under her bed. She groaned to remember it. How could she have been so stupid, thinking a stolen sword could fix all her problems? And yet for some reason she couldn't bring herself to return it.

A loud knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts. She looked up, distracted, and ran to answer, tripping a little on the maze of tales that covered the floor. Before she could reach it, however, the door flew open without her aid.

Her father, standing in the threshold, was not just smiling. Nor was he simply beaming. There are, perhaps, no words to describe the state of absolute euphoria and triumph that twisted up the corners of his mouth. If Siv were a poet and a bit more whimsical, she would have noted that joy was radiating from him like scorching heat from the sun. But she was not a poet. So she just raised her eyebrows.

Her father scampered forward as quickly as a rather portly middle aged man can "scamper" and grasped her hand in his own two. Siv waited for him to say something, growing more suspicious by the second, but he remained content to gaze into her eyes silently and with all the innocent delight of a child with sweets.

At last, Siv removed her hand from his own and backed up a few steps. "What?" She asked, unsure whether to laugh or to run in the opposite direction.

"Oh! Oh! Come! Downstairs! Quickly! Now!" he nearly shrieked, his voice much more high-pitched than usual. "Finally! Finally! Yes!" And with that he returned to his silent display of ecstasy.

Siv stared. Then, without any hesitation, she turned in the opposite direction and fled, making a break for the window. She figured her father had most likely completely lost his mind and was putting on this manic show to lure her downstairs, where he would proceed to chop her into little bits with a cleaver. It was the only probable explanation.

"No you don't!" He shouted and grabbed her arm, laughing heartily. "Not this time. Not _this _time!" And with those ominous words, he dragged his bewildered daughter over the threshold of her room, through the outside hall, down a short flight of stairs, and into the large living room, where he led her to a wooden chair and forcibly placed her in it.

Siv was slightly reassured to see her mother sitting in the chair opposite hers. She was a tall woman, and beautiful, with long, dark hair and kind eyes. She gave Siv a little, rather sad smile.

Watching suspiciously as her father skipped away to sit by her mother, Siv whispered, "Ma, I think father's lost his mind."

"Don't be ridiculous," he said, sitting down heavily next to his wife. Siv thought he was the last person to accuse anyone of being ridiculous.

He cleared his throat in a way that can be described only as grand and adopted a serious expression, the effect of which was rather ruined by his small outbursts of uncontrollable giggling.

"Your mother and I have decided," he began in the same imperious tone Bera had used at the ball to give Siv her destined "quest." Then he had to stop for another giggle fit. Siv glanced at her mother with a look that plainly said, _We should run. Now. _Her father cleared his throat again and resumed. "We have decided that since you are seemingly incapable of attracting any man yourself, we should do the finding for you." Siv's playful smile slowly fell away as her jested feelings of terror began to solidify. From a pouch around his waist, her father pulled a white envelope, sealed with dauntingly red wax. She met her mother's eyes again and again saw the sadness in them. Her breathing quickened. Her father's once humorous tone of deep significance grew dark, though it had not changed. He raised the envelope above his head. "In this hand, Siv, I hold your future. In this hand, I hold your one purpose. In this hand, I hold your destiny."

"You're getting married, Siv." Her mother said quietly.

"Yes, yes, yes you are!" Her farther sang, his head bobbing up and down like an apple in water. "We had it formalized last night! Here's the contract. Look!" He all but threw the envelope at her, once again giggling like a madman.

Siv did not move. Her eyes stayed fixed on her father, blind, unseeing.

"The contract, Siv," her father said through his smile.

Slowly, she looked down and found the envelope in her hand. She turned it over and ran one finger across the red wax that sealed it, still not truly seeing. Her vision blurred. Then a gray spot appeared on the parchment. And another. And another. Siv raised her head to look back at her parents.

"What are you waiting for? Open it! Open it! And stop that crying. Why are you crying on a happy day like this, you moon-addled girl?"

She looked back down at the letter. Her hand moved to break the seal. It trembled.

And then she was running, running, running away. Away from her father and her mother and herself.

She reached her room and slammed the door shut behind her. Her back sliding against the wall, she sank to the floor and sobbed, hugging her legs to her chest and rocking slowly back and forth. The envelope slipped from her hand.

"No," she gasped. "No. No. No. I don't want this. I don't want this."

Any man her father had chosen would be just like the one he had forced upon her at the ball. She knew this. She knew this, and she knew that it meant she would never be happy again. Married to a stranger, cold, dark, and loveless. Chained to someone resentful of having such an ugly, useless, disgusting girl for a wife. Caged with the laughing faces from her dream. Still alone, always alone, and this time without hope of finding escape.

She closed her eyes and buried her face in her arms, shaking with the force of her tears. It was not supposed to be like this. Not like this! She was supposed to be a hero. She was supposed to have adventures and slay beasts and…and….

And be loved.

For the first time, she imagined herself living different story. The story where the hero meets the princess. The hero and the princess always start out hating one another. They bicker and taunt and fight. But at the end of the story, they realize that they are actually in love. True, pure, undeniable love. Bera had always gagged at these tales and denounced them as maudlin, whereas Siv…

She clenched her fists, fingernails digging into flesh.

"No," she said loudly, her tear-streaked face suddenly hard. She would not be given, like coins to a merchant, to buy her father power. No. She would leave, and go far away, and….

She stood up and stumbled forward to her bed. Reaching down, she pulled from under it the gleaming sword that awaited her. One last time, she ran her fingers through her thick hair. Then, without pausing to think, she lifted the sword to the back of her head and cut away her only beauty. She let the brown locks slip away and float to the floor.

She wiped the last traces of tears from her face and strapped the sword around her waist with a plain leather belt.

Gaining confidence, she strode toward the hand mirror that lay on her dresser. With a rush of excitement, she lifted it up and met the eyes of the figure reflected on its surface.

"Blast it," she said. Apparently there was more to being a boy than having short hair. "Perhaps taking off the dress will help."

One quick change of costumes later, Siv again raised the mirror to her face, wary this time. A feminine boy gazed back at her. He grinned mischievously. In a loose-fitting tunic and large leather trousers, there were no curves of any kind to be found. For once, Siv was glad that her chest was so naturally shapeless.

She set down the mirror.

Then reality seemed to return. She couldn't really do this, could she? This wasn't a tale, it was her life, real life. Perhaps it was best if she just accepted the fate her father had planned for her. Slowly, she took one shaking step towards her door where the envelope lay, pulling her. All she had to do was open it, read the letter within, and the moment would pass, her life would continue, she would wake once and for all from this dream of adventure. She took one more step.

_No._

It _was_ her life. It was _her _life, so she would live it just as she damn well pleased.

And with that last thought, Siv turned from the letter and climbed out the window.

"Bera!"

No response.

"Bera!" Siv hissed again.

Silence.

Frustrated, Siv picked up a small stone from the ground and hurled it at her friend's window. When no answer came, Siv shouted, "Oh, wake up, will you!"

At last, a sleepy face opened the window.

"Who's it?" Bera muttered groggily. "Whad'ya want?"

"It's me," Siv said, looking around to make sure she had awoken no one else.

"Oh. Hello, me."

"I thought I told you to wake up! Look, Bera, it's me, Siv."

"Make up your mind," said Bera, squinting down at her. "Are you me or Siv?"

"All right, now you're just teasing me!"

Bera snickered and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. "Why hello there, Siv. What brings you here at this time of night?"

Shaking her head in exasperation, Siv said, "That's a long story. Main plot points: father went and got me betrothed, I ran away, and now I'm going to join the King's army. Have you noticed that I'm a boy?"

"And not a very handsome one, pity." Bera grinned.

"I'm going to take that as a compliment to my femininity. Well, what do you think?"

Bera leaned on the windowsill, resting her face on her hands. "Look, Siv, I'm sorry about your old man, but you don't have to run off. I bet you could get your mum to talk some sense into him. Alfhild's always been the reasonable type, and she loves you more than anything."

"No, there's nothing anyone can do now. It's been formalized. And you can't just tell a noble, 'Oh, never mind, sorry, don't want to marry you after all.' Really, Bera, this is the only way." Siv looked at the ground. Even though she wanted this, this adventure, saying goodbye to her family and to her only friend caused her nothing but more pain and loneliness. "There's nothing else I can do."

They stood together in silence for a moment. A gust of wind pulled at Siv's newly cut hair and threw leaves into a manic dance about the house. The night's impenetrable dark was fading. It was nearly dawn.

"I'll miss you," Bera said, her voice quiet.

Siv looked away as fresh tears stung the corners of her eyes. She grimaced and rubbed at them fiercely with the back of her hand. "Me too. Me too, Bera."

"Who'll get drunk with me at the next boring party?" Bera said, smiling.

"Maybe you could try actually dancing."

"Dancing? While you're out slaying Urgals and hunting the Varden? I suppose I'll have to." She sighed. "But I can't go with you. It's you who's always wanted to go off on an adventure."

"I know," said Siv.

"Write to me, won't you? Should be exciting to hear of your exploits. It'll give me something to think of when I'm sitting here alone."

"Only if you write back."

"But of course. You've got another thing coming if you thought you'd get away from me once and for all."

Siv laughed and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her shirt.

"Goodbye, Bera," she said, looking up at her friend for the last time.

Bera smiled. "Bye, Siv. I'll be expecting you to send me the horns of an Urgal, when you do kill one. Uh, and Siv! Just…try not to get stabbed anywhere too important."

Siv chuckled, turned away, and began the long walk to the great fortress of Uru'baen.


	3. Her Name, Soldier

"Gods," said Siv, staring, awestricken, at what was by far the largest and most ominous building she had ever seen. It had taken her the entire morning and most of the afternoon to travel from Bera's small house in the city proper to the dark palace that loomed over the homes and stores encircling it. Though she had lived in Uru'baen since birth, Siv had never been to the palace. In fact, she had taken care to steer clear of it. Rumors telling of monsters and of evil and of death clouded the city like a fog, creating the tacit law that banned normal citizens from visiting the gloomy place. As such, she had had no idea how to get there, and that lack of knowledge, combined with her overall poor sense of direction, had kept her wandering the streets for hours. But, in the end, she had reached her destination. The home of King Galbatorix was less of a palace and more of an endless, black tower. Of course, she had seen the place many times from afar, as it loomed over the entire city, but only now, standing right next to it, did its full majesty strike her.

Siv sighed and tore her eyes away from the vision of despair. _This place_, she reminded herself, _is to be my new home. Lovely._

Steeling herself, she walked toward the soldier who sat behind a table, piled high with scrolls of parchment, at the entrance to the King's army barracks.

_Here comes the first test_, she thought, picking at skin around her fingernails. _If I can convince him that I'm a boy, then I can convince anyone._ She had spent most of her trek to the palace talking to herself loudly, an action that had garnered several frightened looks from passersby, in an attempt to make her voice sound rougher and more masculine. The result was at least passable, though it came at the price of a very sore throat.

She reached the man and stopped. He smelled of sour ale. He looked up at her, eyes squinted from the sun and from the earliness of the day, and raised an eyebrow.

"You're 'ere to fight for the King, I s'pose."

"Yes," she said, her voice cracking from overuse and from the unaccustomed low pitch.

The man leaned forward and squinted at her a bit harder, rubbing his nose as he did so. Siv held her breath. "You sure you ain't a girl, 'ey?"

Siv's mouth fell open. How had she been discovered so easily? Had she failed at her first test? Desperate, she clenched her teeth together and balled her hands into fists.

"No, I am not a blasted girl!" She screamed, nearly shoving her face against his in mock anger. She tried to mimic the man's vulgar accent, forgoing her own noble speech patterns. "Why does everyone always say that? I'm sick of it! I'm a bloody man, and I'll prove it even if it kills me!"

"All right, all right. Don't go takin' your drawers off, or nothing," he said, backing down from her display. "I believe you."

"Good," Siv grunted, inwardly elated that her short drama had worked.

The soldier picked up a quill and opened a large book. He dipped the quill in a small container of ink and prepared to write.

"What's yer age, then?"

"Err, nineteen."

"Right, right. And I'm the queen of the elves. What'cha think of that?"

"Aren't elven queens usually female…and elves?"

"Aren't nineteen-year-old boys usually taller than yer average fencepost?"

Siv closed her eyes in exasperation. "All right, so I'm only fourteen."

"That's more like it. King doesn't give a damn about age, anyway."

"You could have told me that in the first place!"

"You could've told the truth in the first place, couldn't you?"

By this time, Siv was nearly in spasms from the sheer absurdity of it all.

"And yer name?" At this, Siv froze. She cursed herself for not thinking of one sooner. All that time she had spent making sure she had the perfect voice and the perfect appearance, but it hadn't even occurred to her to come up with a simple _name_?

"Err," she stuttered. "Si…n. It's…Sin." It sounded ridiculous even to her. Sin? Was she insane or just stupid?

To Siv's great surprise, the man laughed. "Sin? Oh, that's just sad!" He leaned forward and smiled at her. "Listen, kid. It's all right. Runaways make up 'bout a quarter of the army. But I must admit—'Sin' is the worst I've 'eard yet. And that's sayin' someit. Bit 'o advice, kid—I'd make up a name before tryin' to sneak my way into the army of the most powerful man in Alagaesia. But maybe that's just me."

Siv gaped at him. "Were you having me on this whole time?"

"You're a clever one, ain't you?" He said, rolling his eyes. "I can smell noble a mile away. A good talent for someone in my position. Still gonna need to know your name, though. Promise your parents won't be finding out."

"I'm…Devan," said Siv, sighing as though it were some great secret.

The man wrote "Devan" next to her fake age in the ledger.

Standing up, he made a grand gesture towards the large training grounds behind him. "Off you go, then. And try not to get yerself killed before you e'en finish yer trainin', 'ey?"

Bewildered, Siv took two steps forward, then stopped and asked the soldier, "But where do I go?"

He squinted and pointed to a small group of people about half a mile in. "That there is yer new family. Here's hopin' you like 'em more than them nobles you ran off from. Though I somehow doubt it."

"Err, thank you," Siv said and headed off in the direction he was pointing.

As she drew nearer to her new "family," her heart began to pound. Her legs froze. Was this really the right thing to do? Maybe this whole adventure was stupid. Maybe she should turn around right now and marry this noble. How bad could it be? But then an image of her mother flashed in her mind. Alfhild, sitting in the foyer, embroidering sheets. Not smiling. Never smiling. She had married Siv's father by arrangement. And she regretted it every day of her life. Rubbing the sweat from her palms, Siv kept running.

When she finally reached the group, she was intimidated to see that nearly all of the other new recruits towered over her. They were also mostly shirtless. She prayed that that particular aspect of the uniform was not mandatory.

"Another new one," said a man dressed in shiny splint mail she took to be her captain. He had a quiet, almost kind voice. "Get in line."

"Yes, Sir," said Siv before rushing to stand next to a boy who looked closer to her own age than the rest. As she turned to face the captain, she saw out of the corner of her eye a flash of dark hair and a hard face that made her spine shiver. She did a double-take, and yes. There, in a corner of the grounds, stood the man who had caught her stealing his sword at the ball. She stared. He was looking away from her, focusing on sparring, but Siv felt heat rise in her cheeks, and she knew that any moment he could turn and see that she was—

A sharp pain in her back and she flew forward, sprawling in the dirt. She rolled over. The captain stood, staring down at her. His small eyes held such contempt that Siv bit her lip and looked away.

"Lesson one," he said. "Never turn your back on the enemy." Siv's face went red as fire while her fellows screamed with laughter. The captain did not smile. He just looked at her for a second longer, then walked away. Siv felt a strong urge to kick him as he turned his back to her. Thankfully, she was not _that_ stupid.

The captain began to march back and forth before them.

"Weak," he said, stopping suddenly right in the middle of the line. "You are all weak." He took off his helmet and tossed it to Siv. "You."

"Yes, Sir?" She spat the words at him.

"Put it on."

"Put—"

"Did I tell you to question my orders?"

"No, Sir."

Hesitating, Siv dropped the helmet on her head. It was much too large for her and slipped down to cover her eyes. There was a scattering of laughter from the others.

"Does that make you feel like a soldier?" asked the captain.

"Err," said Siv, unsure of how to answer. "Not really, Sir." There was a long silence, during which she hoped for the sake of her safety that she had answered correctly.

"Take it off." His voice had gotten even quieter and, somehow, more dangerous, as though laced with venom. She removed the helmet. "Give it back." She walked forward and put it gently in his outstretched palms.

Her hands shook.

The captain gestured for a servant boy. Everyone waited in utter silence as the small child ran to hear his request. He never stopped staring at her. Finally, _finally_, the boy reached him.

"Yes, Sir?"

"Clean this," he said without looking away from Siv. The servant took the helmet and ran. Siv's cheeks burned with rage and embarrassment as the other recruits broke into roars of laughter.

"Silence." It was strange how such a quiet voice could carry like that. His eyes moved on at last.

Silence fell instantly.

"Training starts now," he paused. "The next time I allow you to wear my helmet," he said without looking at her, "I expect you to treat it with the respect it deserves."

"Yes, Sir," she said through clenched teeth, hatred reducing her fear to ash. The captain resumed his pacing. He began to speak, but Siv couldn't hear what he was saying because the blood rushing through her head was too loud.

"'Ey you," a man down the line hissed. She continued to stare straight ahead. "Girlie." Her head snapped towards him.

"I'm not a girl," she whispered at him.

"You got a pretty little face, though. Like a girl. Maybe I take you behind the castle and give you a good plough."

She could feel herself sweating but couldn't tell if it was from anger, fear, or embarrassment. Maybe all three.

But then the captain grabbed the man by the front of his trouser and squeezed. Hard. The man squealed. And the line was laughing at him.

"One thing I will—" he squeezed harder. "—not—" Harder. "—tolerate—" Harder. "—is any attempt at domination. On anyone. I'm the dominant one around here, and if you have a problem with that, you just try to plough me." He released the man, who collapsed to the ground. Turning, he said, "Get up."

The man glared at Siv. She smiled. "You just wait," he said. "Captain won't always be around to protect you."

"If you want me so badly, why not try taking me now?" she asked. He growled at her. The boy next to her, the one who looked close to her own age, laughed nervously and grinned at her.

"Five laps around the training field," the captain said. "Go."

Siv looked around her. The training field was huge. From North to South side, it must have been about a mile long. From East to West, about two thirds of that. She took a deep breath and jogged after her companions.

Two laps later, Siv began wishing she were dead. At least then she would feel no pain. This…this was torture. Sweat poured down her face. She could not breathe. And she was not even halfway done.

She had never had endurance training before, and she was so far behind that she could no longer see the others, except for the boy who had stood next to her. He seemed to be having as much trouble as she was. Forcing herself to keep going, Siv looked behind her. There were the rest of her companions.

_I'm ahead of them?_ She thought, surprised. Perhaps she and the boy were not the only ones who were unaccustomed to such pain. But they were gaining on her, and she pushed forward. After another few moments, a large man caught up to her completely.

"What lap are you on?" She asked, panting.

"Fourth," he said in a clear voice that had barely a hint of weariness. "Better hurry it up, Girlie. Captain will eat you for breakfast."

"Don't call me…" she could not finish. He laughed and, with one easy bound, passed her.

Three laps later, Siv came to a halt. She had finished last, just behind the boy. By the time she had reached her fourth lap, her other companions had formed a line once more, waiting for them to finish. She joined the line. The sun had reached its pinnacle. Her vision was blurred and dotted with black spots, as though someone had spilled ink on her pupils. She tried to focus on the captain. It was nearly impossible.

Through the rushing sound of her own blood echoing in her ears, she heard the captain say, "Take a break. The food tent is on your left." Siv staggered off, her arms hanging limply in front of her. She had to stop twice to vomit into the dirt.

Wiping her mouth, she dragged herself towards the tent. Men packed in around her, stinking of sweat and dirt. They were getting to know each other, laughing and slapping each other on the back. But Siv was alone. She sat at a table in the corner and rested her head in her arms.

This was so different from what she had imagined.

She was an idiot.

She refused to cry.

"'Ey you." The voice was directed at her, but she buried her face deeper into her arms. "Girlie!" She looked up. It was the man the captain had punished earlier.

"What do you want?"

"Would you mind moving to a different table? We can smell you from fifty feet away."

She clenched her fists. "Oh I'm sorry," she said. "I thought you were big, tough men. Didn't know you needed everything to smell like perfume. Am I making you uncomfortable?"

He glared at her. Turning away, he said, "You won't last three days here. I'll make sure of that."

Her eyes fell to the ground. She sat and hid her face again.

When everyone else was finished eating, the captain called them back into line. He ordered them all to give their names. This time, Siv was ready.

"Devan," she lied easily, when the big man pointed at her.

She learned that the man who had taunted her was named Jory and that the boy who had been nearly as slow as she was Erik. He stuttered when he said his name, like he was afraid his tongue might run away if he opened his mouth.

After all names were known, the captain spoke up. ""Now that we've tested your stamina, let's see how you do in an actual fight. Sparring. Take your armor and wooden sword from those piles there."

A chill ran down Siv's back. She could barely move, and yet he expected her to hack and slash? Taking a deep breath, she walked to where the captain was pointing, placed her own sword on the ground, and picked up the wooden sword and armor. She slid the armor over her head. Luckily, it was light. At least she could still move. The sword was another matter. As she tried to lift it, Siv realized that it must have a lead core. She could get it above her head, just barely, if she used both hands. Her arms began to shake. So, of course the captain called on her to spar first. With Jory.

He was huge. Not fat, like the butcher in Siv's neighborhood, but as muscular as a horse, as tall as a bear on its hind legs. Siv was barely four inches above five feet, with no muscles to speak of. He grinned at her as they stood across from one another, surrounded in a tight circle by the others. She grinned back, just to spite him. She knew she would lose, but she intended to fight.

It did not last long. About ten seconds, in fact. Jory bore down on her, hammering away with his big, wooden stick. Knowing she lacked the strength to block, she just dodged to the side, once, twice, three times. Then she ran into one of the other soldiers. Jory slashed, and his sword struck her forearm. But not hard enough to break the bone. Not quite. Siv cried out and dropped her sword. She lashed with one leg and managed to kick him in the groin. Jory dropped his own sword and swung a huge fist at her face. It connected with all the force of a smith's hammer, knocking her to the ground.

Her eyes watering, Siv saw Jory raising his arm for another blow. "Yield," she said, scrambling away. "I yield." Jory hit her again, in the nose this time. She felt the pain in her skull, like someone had driven a stake through her brain. Her vision swam and blurred.

"Enough!" She heard, as though from very far away. "You will stop this now. Boy, get him up." Siv felt a hand on her arm, pulling her to her feet. She looked up and saw Erik. He helped her limp back into the circle.

"Can I lean on you?" she said.

"Yes." Erik staggered, then held strong, as she put all of her weight against his side.

"Sorry," she said.

"No worries." He gave a shaky laugh.

Bringing a hand to her face, Siv found that, surprisingly, her nose was not bleeding.

The pain numbed to a dull ache as pair after pair continued to spar. Eventually, she felt strong enough to stand on her own. She smiled at Erik as she lifted herself from him. He let his arm, which had been wrapped around her shoulder for support, fall to his side with a small, but unmistakable, blush. It was easy to see on his pale, freckled face.

"Arni, you're with Devan," said the captain. Siv's stomach did a somersault.

She lost every fight. Even the one time she was paired with Erik, who was smaller and younger than the rest. It took longer against him, but still only about thirty seconds. He frowned apologetically.

She would get a few minutes' rest in between bouts, but that was all. As her strength waned, her fights became shorter and shorter. The captain wore a mocking sneer.

"Devan, you're with Gunnar." Siv let out a long moan. Gunnar was the largest man of the lot, nearly six and a half feet high, and built like a bull. She had been praying to avoid him, but the captain, it seemed, had other ideas.

"That hardly seems fair," said a voice from behind her. Siv turned around, then instantly turned back, her heart beating fast. It was the dark noble from the party, the one whose sword she had tried to steal. What if he saw her? What if he recognized her? How long had he been watching her?

"Oh?" said the captain. "Then I apologize, My Lord."

The noble remained silent.

Eventually, the captain continued. "And who, in your opinion, would be an equal match?"

"Do not patronize me." The noble's voice was quiet, soft. "He does not need an equal match. He needs a teacher. They all do. And you are not fulfilling this need, Frey."

When he mentioned the captain's name, it suddenly made sense to Siv. This noble did not truly care about their training. He didn't sympathize with her for being beaten again and again and again. He just had a grudge against the captain, she could tell it in his quiet voice, for it was not a peaceful quiet. It was the quiet of a veiled threat. She clenched her teeth, but still did not look up. This was just some kind of pissing match between two men, and she was being used as the measuring line.

"Well then," said the captain, nearly as quiet. "Enlighten me. Teach this boy. Show me how it's done, Lord Murtagh."

Siv could almost feel the noble's back stiffen. She heard the sharp song of a sword being drawn from its sheath, and for a moment, she thought he meant to attack the captain.

"Very well," he said. "Turn and face me, boy."

Siv turned on her heels, slowly, grinding the dirt beneath her feet. As this Murtagh looked at her, she glared at him. She did not like being treated like a child. She did not like being used. She clenched her fists.

He stepped into the circle. "Ready your weapon." Hefting her sword up once more, Siv felt some of her strength returning to her, fueled by anger. Everything came crashing down on her. The cruelty of the captain, her humiliation, the hatred of her fellows. At that moment, all of it seemed to be his fault. She lifted her wooden sword higher. She would beat him. She was no child.

Shouting a low battle cry, she ran at him. He was surprised, but still raised his sword and blocked her with such grace that she stumbled. He brought his sword in a slow arc towards her head. She threw it aside and swung wildly. He danced away. To her utter fury, she saw that he was smiling. She ran at him again and again, but he dodged and blocked, then lazily flicked out at her leg with the flat of his blade. It connected and Siv cursed, backing away. They circled each other. This time, she waited for him to attack her, but when he did, she couldn't raise her arm in time, and before she knew what was happening, his blade was at her throat.

They stared at each other. Her heart raced, but there was no sign of recognition in his face. A bead of sweat dripped into her eye, and she blinked. The man lowered his sword. Only then did Siv notice that it was made of metal, not wood. He had been so sure of his victory that he hadn't even replaced it. Her cheeks burned.

"You have potential," he said, his breathing even and calm. "But you're gripping the sword wrong. Like this." She clenched her teeth as he lifted her fingers and put them in the correct position. "You're spirited, but don't swing blindly. Know what you want to hit before you strike. Have a plan. It's more about wits than strength, sometimes."

"Thank you, My Lord," she said politely, all the while trying to burn him with her eyes. He narrowed his own, seeming to sense some of her anger.

"Yes, thank you," said the captain. He almost sounded sincere. "Now, I'm sure you have more pressing concerns, My Lord."

Murtagh whirled around to face him but said nothing, only staring. Then, he walked away.

"Back in the circle," the captain said to her. "Arni, you and Gunnar."

As Siv walked towards Erik, she felt resolve strengthening inside her. She would become strong, stronger than any of them. Stronger than that noble, Murtagh. She grinned.


	4. Her Name, Enemy

Siv swung the sword down to meet Erik's own. Wood clacked against wood. He twirled his blade around and parried, then thrust forward. She dodged, feinted left, and stabbed out to his right. A bead of sweat worked its way into her eye. She hit him in the side.

"Ow," he said, massaging the bruise. He was breathing hard, his shirt soaked through.

"Sorry!" Siv put a hand on his shoulder. "Did I—"

"I'm fine," he laughed, with a nervous smile. Siv grinned back and pushed the bangs out of her eyes.

"Think they're in love," Jory grunted.

"Back to the circle, you two," said the captain. Erik held his side as he walked back. "Stop moaning, boy. Devan could not do any real damage even if he wanted to."

"Try me," Siv muttered as she walked after Erik.

It was her fourth victory. And only two of them had been against Erik. Three weeks had passed since her first day, and she had had no more contact with Murtagh. Her anger at him had cooled a bit, but it had not vanished. She wondered if perhaps he truly had been trying to help her. Indeed, it was only through the use of his advice that she had gotten this far. But still….

"Jory, Gunnar," the captain shouted.

[Scene II-Sorry guys, I can't think of a more graceful way to do this. Scene II, III, etc. will now signify a change of scene.]

The soldiers were given a break every second day of the week. Siv usually took the opportunity to get out of the training grounds, though she always feared running into someone she knew. She could never work up the courage to visit Bera. What if her parents were there? What if she got Bera into trouble? And a part of her didn't really have a reason for avoiding Bera, at least not one that Siv herself understood. This day, her reason was clear: Erik was with her.

"What's your favorite color?" Siv asked, moving through the crowd in the hot summer market. It smelled of sweat and perfume, and she could hear snatches of conversation coming from all sides. She glanced at a beautiful green dress and imagined what it would feel like to wear something like that again, to run her hand over the fine silk.

"Purple," he said. He was stumbling behind her, trying to keep up. She stopped at a stand for scented soaps to let him catch her.

"So regal!" she laughed. "Why?" The color seemed too grand for him.

"Not royal purple," he said as they continued walking. Almost immediately, he was falling behind again. "More like lavender. Soft. Yours?"

"Blue."

"Like the sky?"

She shook her head. "Like water. Deep water."

"Hmm." He said.

She stopped and grinned at him. "Don't like it?"

"No, it's fine. I just had you figured as a yellow." He shrugged.

"Ugh! Don't even say that word around me."

"Sorry," he said raising his hands in supplication. Siv chuckled, and he smiled anxiously.

"What? Did you make the girl cry? Having a lovers' spat?" Jory loomed behind Erik like a dragon, except much less beautiful. Erik jumped and spun around, got his feet tangled, and fell. Siv caught him before he hit the ground. Laughing, Jory pushed Siv. She and Erik went tumbling down. Erik landed on top of her and blushed so red she thought his head would explode. Siv helped him get to his feet, and he pulled her up. Brushing herself off, she turned away from Jory and started walking. She could hear Erik following behind her.

"Where you going, pretty boy?" Gunnar, one of Jory's henchmen, stood in front of her.

Siv clenched her fists and brushed past him, grabbing Erik by the shoulder to make sure he followed.

"He asked you a question, girlie!" Jory shouted.

She whirled around. "Can't you think of any new insults? Or is that just too difficult for your weak, little mind?"

She was sprawled on the ground before she even saw Gunnar's fist strike out at her. Jory grabbed her hair and dragged her head up. His hot breath covered her ear as he leaned over and whispered, "We can't hurt you here. But back in the barracks ain't here. There, you got no one to protect you and no crowds to stop us." He let her go, and she hit the ground with a thump. "See you at home," he said, smiling at her.

She lay on the ground for a moment longer before she felt someone's shoe crunch against her fingers. Yelping, she jumped to her feet. Gunnar and Jory were gone. She turned around. Erik was still there. He was pale as milk, his blue eyes huge. She grinned at him.

"Well, at least they're gone now."

He stared at her. "You're bleeding."

She brushed a trickle of bright red blood away from her cheek. "It's nothing." In truth, it burned like dragon fire. "I'm fine."

"You're not," he said. Then he started to laugh. Blushing, he tried to cover it up with his hands, but the laughter spilled between his fingers.

Siv raised her eyebrows. "Well. Thanks."

"Sorry," he giggled. "You just sound so much like my…like my father." The laughter was gone. "He said nothing could ever hurt him."

"Oh gods, Erik, he's not—"

"No, no, he's not dead. Sometimes I wish—" He looked suddenly terrified and clapped his hands over his mouth.

Siv hesitated, then put a hand on his shoulder. There was a long pause.

"Did I ever tell you how I joined up?" She said as she started walking again. "With Galbatorix's army, I mean." People stopped to stare at her. No great wonder. She was bruised and bleeding and covered in dirt.

"No," said Erik. His nose was running a little.

"I ran away from home. My father was…just too much to handle. He tried to force me into a betrothal, and I hated him for it."

They walked in silence for a time.

"I wish I had your problem," Erik said finally. Then the tips of his ears turned red. "Well, no I don't. What I mean is—" He sighed. "My father made me join up. Even though I'm his heir. He said that it would make me into a real man. That if I didn't toughen up a little, he would…" He trailed off.

"I'm sorry, Erik."

"Don't be. I'm fine"

Siv laughed, and Erik stared at her, looking affronted.

"Sorry, it's just, that's exactly what I said when you accused me of being like your father. Maybe you're tougher than you think."

He smiled, and it was warmer than butter.

[Scene III]

The night was hot and muggy, but the sky was full of stars. Siv walked back to the barracks after a day of shopping in the market. A week had passed since Jory had threatened her, and she had taken to keeping her stolen sword strapped at her side, just in case.

She had stayed out later than she'd meant to, trying to convince herself it was a good idea to visit Bera. In the end, she had decided against it. It was always the same. Whenever she considered it, something always stopped her. Maybe it was because she didn't want Bera to see her like this, like a trained puppy. Like a commoner. Like a boy. This life was so different from what she had expected. There was no adventure, no glamor, no slaying of mighty beasts. Just endless practice, endless orders. It was nothing like the story books. And Siv was beginning to think she was stupid for ever imagining it would be. The only truly exciting thing that had happened to her since she joined the army was meeting the noble again. Murtagh. Fighting with him. That battle—to her it had felt real, no matter that to him it was probably no challenge at all. As much as she was angry with him, she felt like thanking him for giving her that rush.

A noise from behind her made her jump. She pulled her sword from its sheath and whirled around, holding it in both hands.

"Who's there?" she called. Her heart pounded, and sweat began to bead above her lip.

"Me, girlie," said a voice from behind her, and before she could turn, she felt something hard crack against the back of her head. She dropped her sword, falling to the ground. Immediately, Jory's foot flashed out and caught her in the chest. She felt ribs splinter and screamed. A hand clamped across her mouth. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. She found a finger between her teeth and bit down hard. Air rushed back into her lungs as blood filled her mouth and the hand jerked away.

"Bastard," growled Gunnar. Then a storm of feet and fists pounded into every inch of her body. She curled into a ball. The pain was unimaginable. A horse was trampling her. A dragon was clawing out her eyes. A bull was goring her with its horns.

A faraway voice seemed to say something. It was so quiet, she could barely hear. And then, the storm stopped. The pain remained, but no new bruises formed, no new cuts, no more broken bones. She tried to open her eyes. One was swollen shut, but she could just make out Jory, Gunnar, and the others running. A shape stood over her, darker than discord. It bent down, and she was lifted up into the void.

[Scene IV]

Light flooded her vision again. The shape carrying her laid her down on something soft and warm. A bed. The healers' tent. Noises crowded around in her ears, banging at her throbbing skull. She moaned.

Looking around, she tried to catch a glimpse of the man who had saved her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone with dark hair pulling back the tent flap to leave.

"—ait," she whispered. "Wait." Her voice sounded dead. Yet somehow he heard her and turned. When she saw his face, she began to laugh but stopped at once, feeling the pain. It was Murtagh. He looked at her, then left.

Someone tugged at her shirt, almost taking it over her head. Panic rushed into her gut.

"No!" she screamed, and blood caught in her throat. She leaned over and vomited. The hand left her shirt.

"—won't let me remove his clothing," said a voice.

A large woman walked over and looked down at her. She chuckled and muttered, "You fools," under her breath. "Out!" It was a command. "Everybody out!"

A flurry of motion, and everyone else was gone.

"Fools," she said again. "And you're the worst of the lot, girl."

It took Siv a second to realize what she had said.

"…Not a—" she mumbled.

"Oh yes you are. I'm not blind, girl. Not like the rest of them. Do you know how much trouble you'd be in if the wrong people found out?"

Siv paused. "No."

"Nor do I. Now there's a terrifying thought."

"Are you the wrong people?" Siv asked.

"If I were, you'd be naked in front of the captain by now. I don't pretend to understand why you did it, but what I do understand is that you won't last another week without my help."

"I'm fine."

"Girl, you look like pounded meat."

"I'm hiding fine." Siv had decided there was no lying to this woman.

"Really?" she said sarcastically. "How are you changing?"

"Doesn't matter. Don't have any other clothes."

"Hmm. Bathing?"

"On my day off."

"Once a week? Could be worse, I suppose," she paused. "And your moon blood?"

"I—" Siv hesitated. "I figured I'd just…"

"Ha! Just what? Just say someone had stabbed your manly loins?"

Siv glowered at her.

"Well, let's deal with this after we get you all fixed up, shall we?" And before she knew what was happening, the woman had her clothes off her.

Siv had never seen magic before. At first, she was frightened when the woman muttered a few words and brought forth a calm golden light, but then the pain lessened, and she was just relieved. The woman did not have enough power to heal her fully, so she bandaged her up and made a tea for Siv to drink that dulled her senses. Eventually, she fell asleep.

When she awoke, the woman was standing over her. She pressed a small box into her hand.

"Here," she said. "This is an herb to…well some might call it a poison. But whatever you call it, it will stop your moon blood. Put some into your water for a week when it's the right time of month. Just a pinch will do. Come to me when you run out."

"Thank you," said Siv. Then, for some reason, she was crying. The big woman patted her cheek as Siv hiccuped.

"My name is Bryn, girl. Yours?"

"I'm called Devan," she said, wiping away a trail of snot that dripped from her nose. "But my name is Siv."

"Siv. A good name," said Bryn.

[Because some people seem to be afraid-don't worry. I'm not making Siv into a rider.]


	5. Her Name, Ally

Siv spent nine days in the tent, being fussed over by the healers and talking to Bryn. It was nice for someone to know her secret at last, nice to have someone to confide in. Gruff and tough as Bryn was, Siv liked the large woman. She talked often of her daughter, a girl around Siv's years, who worked as a merchant in Teirm.

"She absolutely refuses to marry. Good for her, I say. World needs more independent women. You'd know all about that, I expect."

Siv smiled.

One day, Bryn came to her with a long strip of cloth.

"What's this?" Siv asked.

"It's a chest-binder. In case anyone's begun to notice that you have a girl's figure."

"Thank you," said Siv, blushing slightly.

But, too soon, she was well enough to leave, and "Back to training with you!" was all she got from Bryn.

Her bruises and healing ribs ached as she walked from the tent, but at least the sun was bright.

The men were out, wrestling in the dirt. They often trained without weapons, in case they were disarmed in battle. Or to strengthen them. Or just because the captain liked them to look silly, Siv supposed. She almost always ended up sweating and covered in dirt.

As she walked over to them, she saw Erik and waved. He looked at her and smiled. It was stiff and strained, not warm as she remembered. He had bags under his eyes and, Siv saw when she got closer, a black bruise across his left cheek. Reaching the rest of the soldiers, she stood next to him.

"Are you all right?" She whispered as Jory and Ealdor rolled around on the ground, trying to get on top of one another. He nodded slightly, not looking at her.

Just then, Ealdor, a small, balding man, screamed. Jory had his arm twisted above his head at an awkward angle.

"That's enough," said the captain. Jory seemed not to hear him and jerked Ealdor's arm up even further. "I." The captain walked forward. "Said." He grabbed a tuft of Jory's blond hair. "Enough." He yanked back. Hard. Jory's neck snapped up, and he dropped Ealdor. Still gripping him by the head, the captain said quietly, "Who am I?"

"A royal prig! Let go of me!"

The captain threw him down, then put a foot on his head and ground it into the dirt.

"Who am I?" he asked again, quieter than before. Jory mumbled something into the dirt. "What was that? I don't think they all could hear you."

"Captain!" Jory shouted. The captain took his foot off of Jory's head, and the big man sprang up, spitting globs of mud.

"And you will follow my orders from now on, won't you?"

"Yes, Sir." Jory stared at the ground.

"Good." There was a long pause. "Get back in line, you two. Erik, Devan, you're next." And that was his way of welcoming her back to life.

Siv sighed and walked forward. Glancing at Erik, she stopped short. He was grinning, staring at Jory, and it was like a feral cat. Something in his eyes made a chill creep down her spine.

"I said, Devan and Erik."

Slowly, Siv reached out and tapped his shoulder. His eyes turned on her, and for a second, it seemed he did not recognize her, still smiling. Then his eyes cleared. He shuddered.

Walking forward together, they reached the middle of the circle. Before they began to fight, Erik threw one last glance at Jory.

[Scene II]

That night, in the barracks, Siv slid into her bed with a sigh. There was something oddly satisfying about being back to work again. She had come to enjoy it, she realized, now that she had a goal. Still, it was nice to be done for the day, to sleep under the cool sheet, even if the mattress wasn't stuffed with feathers, as her old one had been. She had never shared a bunk before, either. But that wasn't so bad, because it was with Erik. He slept on the bottom, she on the top.

"Hey, boy!" shouted Jory. "Why're you sleeping in all those damned clothes?"

Siv and Erik were the only soldiers who wore their clothes to bed. The rest just went naked, unashamed. It had made her blush and look away the first night, but now she was used to it. Leaning her head over the side of her bed, Siv looked down at the big man, prepared to give a retort. But he was talking to Erik.

"What?" asked Erik, who was just about to get into bed. His voice sounded high-pitched, tired and strained.

"Think you're too good to be like everyone else, or just ashamed about the size of your manhood?" The barracks roared with laughter as Erik blushed and looked at his feet.

"I bet it's not even two inches!" Gunnar's voice boomed across the room.

"Three silvers?" said Jory.

"Five!" he said. Jory reached toward Erik, who was shaking from head to toe, his hands bunched into fists.

"Shut up!" he screamed. Jory stopped. Even Siv was surprised. Erik's voice had always been soft and gentle. She had tried on several occasions to imagine him angry but could never set an image in her head. He stood, red-faced, glaring at Jory. "Just shut up!"  
The big man hesitated, and, for a moment, he looked almost frightened.

The laughter began slowly. Gunnar started it, she thought, but it spread to Jory, and then to the rest, as they looked at Erik standing there, one boy in a room full of men.

Jory's fist came fast, sinking deep into Erik's stomach. He doubled up and fell to the floor, clutching at his belly.

Siv stumbled from the bed then to land next to her friend's body, between him and Jory. "Leave him alone."

To her utter surprise, Jory dropped the hand that was reaching for Erik and backed away. He and Gunnar turned and went to their own beds. A murmur rose in the barracks. Then everyone went about their business, getting undressed.

She looked at Erik. He was white as virgin snow. Smiling to hide her confusion, she knelt down and put a hand on his shoulder. His eyes flicked from Jory back to her.

"All right?"

He bit his lip, then touched her hand, like a child seeking comfort. His eyes were wet, but he wasn't crying. The moment passed. She helped him to his bed, then climbed into hers.

As she lay there, she thought about why Gunnar and Jory hadn't attacked her. It didn't make sense. Had the captain done something? But no, why wouldn't he have ordered them to leave Erik alone, as well? Besides, why would he care? She could think of nothing else.

To clear her head, and because she had no desire to sleep, she got up and went for a walk among the barracks. In the night air, she could smell the cold, sharp and clear. Her feet made little dust clouds as she walked. The moths were out, scattered about without any light to fly towards.

It was not quiet. Insects hummed. Owls hooted. And somewhere, in the distance, she could hear wood clacking against wood. She recognized the sound at once, as it had filled her days for a month, and began walking towards it before she realized what she was doing.

Winding among the little buildings that made up the barracks, she looked at the sky. There was no moon. When she came to the source of the noise, she froze. For there was Murtagh, hitting a wooden dummy with a wooden sword. Without thinking, she kept walking until she was just a few feet from him. Then, she stood watching him. He moved quickly, like a shadow in the night. The blows struck again and again, without pattern, without rhythm. Always changing. A cacophony of kills, again and again and again.

"Do you want something?" he asked, not even stopping to look at her.

And she realized that yes, she did.

"Thank you."

He paused. "For what?"

"You stopped the others from bullying me, didn't you?" She made it into a question, even though she knew the answer.

He resumed his bludgeoning of the mannequin. "Why would I do that?"

"I don't know. But you did it."

He turned to look at her. His dark eyes were hard. "No."

Siv flushed. "Yes, you did. They've stopped and there's no other reason."

"I stopped them from killing you that night. I did nothing to keep them from tormenting you."

"Oh." She didn't know what to say. Her head felt hot. "I suppose you scared them off then."

He shrugged.

They stared at each other.

"What's your name?" He asked.

She looked at her feet. "Devan."

To her surprise, he chuckled. Glancing at his face, she opened her mouth. It was the first time she had seen him do anything but frown.

"No it isn't," he said.

She blinked. "Yes it is."

He turned back to the dummy and started swinging again. "You're not a very good liar."

"And how would you know?"

"I know people. And I know you're lying."

"I am not!" She balled her hands into fists and walked behind the dummy to look him in the eye. "I'm not."

He shrugged again and kept swinging.

Trying to find something else to say, she blurted out, "What's your name, then?"

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Murt—"

"No it isn't," she said, mimicking his deep voice.

He stopped swinging and glared at her. She smiled innocently, but all the while she was picking at the flesh around her fingernails. Sighing, he resumed his training.

She looked at the ground. "How did you know?"

"I told you: I know people. Now what's your real name?"

She racked her brain. "Eodor."

He snorted. "As in Eodor Kingslayer, who murdered Gedon the Great?"

"…Yes."

"Your parents named you after a killer?"

"They thought it sounded nice."

"Nice?" he scoffed. "Right. No asking about names. I get it. Devan."

She watched as he swung at the dummy for a while. The clacking sound filled her ears.

"Why do you care, anyway?"

He stopped. They looked at each other for a moment.

"You're the first person…" he said, then closed his mouth, looking surprised he had said anything.

"The first person what?" She cocked her head.

Suddenly, he was laughing. True laughter, deep and rolling.

"No one's ever actually tried to beat me in a fight before."

She tilted her head the other way. "What?"

"Everyone I fight lets me win. Because they're afraid of me. Or Galbatorix."

"What would them being afraid of the king have to do with you?"

His hard eyes met hers. "Nothing."

"But you just said it."

"And I now regret that. It's nothing."

"Well now you have to tell me."

He sighed. "I hated my father."

Siv raised her eyebrows. "So…"

"He was close to the king."

"Oh." She leaned against the dummy.

Silence then. She didn't know what else to say. So she fumbled about and finally blurted out, "I hate my father, too."

"That's something we have in common, then." He said no more. Siv almost asked why he hated his father but thought better of it.

She didn't know what made her say it. Perhaps the awkwardness of the ensuing silence, perhaps not. Perhaps she wanted to hear his response. "I'm going to beat you someday."

He looked at her with his dark eyes and said nothing.

"I will. It's what keeps me going during training."

"You won't," he said. "Not with Frey as your teacher."

That made her hesitate. It was true that the captain never actually taught them anything, just made them spar each other. The only one who had ever taught her something about swordplay had been Murtagh himself. Then she knew.

"Teach me."

He stared at her.

"Why should I do that?"

"Because I'm the only one who'll ever try to beat you in a fight."

"My enemies will try to beat me."

"And they'll succeed unless you practice with me."

He snorted. "You think very highly of yourself."

"That's not what I meant." And it wasn't.

There was a pause. "All right," he said.

"What?"

"I said yes."

Her eyes widened. "Why?"

He shrugged. "It's more interesting than hitting wooden men."

And she smiled.


	6. Her Name, Friend

"Again," Murtagh said.

Siv sighed. "Can't we try something else?"

"Not until you master this."

"Can we at least take a break?" she asked. They had been at it for two hours. The crescent moon stood high, looking over them, marking the fourth month of their time together. Siv had not seen him smile since that first night.

Their practices typically unfolded thus: she would start fresh and lively; he would teach her something or other for about an hour until she could do it with her eyes closed; then, when she was too tired to lift her sword, they would spar. She never won.

"No. Again."

She thrust her sword forward, sluggish in her movements. Moving his blade to the side, he slowly parried, then allowed her to slip her sword under his and hit him in the chest.

"Again. This time, make the feint more aggressive. I need to believe that you are attacking me so that you can disengage from my block."

She tried again.

And again.

And again.

Eventually, she dropped her sword and fell to the ground, putting her head in her hands. "I can't do this."

"Yes, you can. Now do it."

She stayed sitting. "Just give me a minute.

He sighed and dropped down beside her.

They sat in silence. Siv began to pick at her fingernails as she tried to think of something to talk about.

"What's your favorite color?" She tried. Asking questions always got Erik talking, despite his extreme shyness.

Murtagh just looked at her.

She blushed.

When she thought he was not going to answer, he said, "Red."

"Like blood?" she said without thinking.

"No," he paused and looked at the sky. "The only thing I remember of my mother is this crimson dress she used to wear." He sighed. "In my mind, I can see her reaching down to pat my head in that dress. She looked so big." He lay back in the dirt, still gazing at the moon.

"Is she…gone?"

He glanced at her and said nothing.

Siv didn't know what to say. "I haven't seen my mother since I joined up. She's one of the only things I miss."

"What else do you miss?"

She raised her eyebrows. He was never this talkative. "Books. Parties." She laughed, then realized that it was actually true. She missed telling stories with Bera, drinking with Bera. "My friend."

"Just the one?"

"I wasn't too popular," she said, then chuckled. "Oh, don't sit there and tell me that you are."

His mouth twitched. "You have me there."

There was a silence, but it was not a tense one.

Then suddenly, he asked, "What is your name?"

"Devan," she said automatically.

"We've been over this. I mean your real name."

"Cian." It was the name of one of her cousins, who used to pull her hair when they were toddlers.

"No it isn't."

"How do you know?"

"You obviously don't want to tell me. You wouldn't say your real name just because I asked."

She scoffed. "Why did you ask then?"

He shrugged. "Come on. Get up. Let's try this again."

"Ugh, fine."

He got up first and, to her surprise, offered her his hand. She took it, and he pulled her up.

As she leaned down to pick up her sword, he stood and waited.

"Again," he said, when she held it firmly in her hand.

Immediately, she dived forward, catching him off his guard. He recovered quickly and swung his sword sideways to parry, but before their blades connected, she flicked hers down, under his, and extended. She hit him in the chest.

There was a long silence.

Then Murtagh looked at her and smiled.

[Scene II]

Siv sat with Erik at their usual table during lunch. She was riding a high, having just won three out of four bouts in captain's training, as she had come to call it. However, her smile vanished when she noticed that Erik had a new bruise today, purple and raw. They ate, speaking of nothing in particular, when Jory walked up.

Erik clenched his fists and looked away while Siv glared at the big man.

"Now, I'm just here to talk, Devan. No harm in that, is there?" He said, grinning at Erik.

"Depends what you have to say," said Siv.

Jory chuckled. "It's so sweet of you, Devan, always protecting him like that. By the way, where do you go in the night? Sleepwalking?" Siv clenched her teeth when she got his point. She knew there were times when she couldn't protect Erik, and so did Jory. They often beat him in the night, when Siv was away training with Murtagh. She glanced at Erik, who stared down at his food.

"What do you want, Jory?" she said, standing up. He took a step towards her.

Then he took several steps back, said, "Nothing," and walked away. Siv was shocked into stillness. She sat back down and shrugged at Erik. He was looking behind her, though, and she turned to see Murtagh standing there. He made to leave, but Siv called after him.

"Wait!"

He stopped. "What?"

She didn't know what.

"Sit with us?" she finally said.

He looked at her, then shrugged and sat.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"I'm fine. I'm more worried about Erik."

They both looked over at him. To Siv's surprise, he was glaring at Murtagh.

"Erik, what's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing." But he kept glaring.

"Erik, you're glaring."

"No I'm not."

"Yes you are."

"I am not."

"Now you're glaring at _me_," said Siv.

Murtagh snorted. Erik looked at him with such malice that Siv felt goose bumps rising on her arms. Then Erik stood up, took his tray of food, and walked across the tent to sit at another table, as far from Siv and Murtagh as he could get, and sat down. Glancing at Murtagh, she saw that he was watching Erik with furrowed eyebrows, as though deciphering some complex code.

They sat in silence for a while. Siv stared at her food but could not bring herself to take a bite.

[Scene III]

"Better," said Murtagh, watching her recover from her lunge. "Fix your grip." She looked at her hand and saw that she was holding the sword as a child holds his candy: much too hard. Loosening her fingers, she hopped back and forth a bit on the balls of her feet, ready to attack.

"Actually, that's enough for today," he said.

"But—"

"It's nearly dawn. We both need sleep."

She glanced up and, sure enough, there was a faint red glow on the horizon, crowning the landscape like the edge of a solar eclipse. She sighed and lowered the practice sword.

"Same time tomorrow night?" she said.

"What is your name?" he asked. It had become something of a game between the two of them. Every night, he would ask her name, and every night she would give him a new lie.

"Alektryon," she said. That gave him pause.

"I've never even heard that name."

"That's because I made it up."

He snorted. "All right, if you won't tell me your name, at least tell me something else about you. Something real."

"Er," she said, searching for something safe. "My favorite color is blue."

"What is it with you and colors?" he asked.

Truthfully, it was just something she used to get people talking when she felt awkward. But she said, "I think color defines a person's true character."

He paused. "That's strangely profound, for you."

"For me?"

"Do you read much about magic?" Then he laughed. "Sorry, you've probably never seen a book in your life."

"I have so. And I have read about magic." It was one of her favorite topics. It must be the best feeling in the world to know you had the power to blow a man up with a single word.

"Truly? Now there's a real clue about your past. Much better than 'My favorite color is blue.'"

She blushed and cursed herself for a fool. Most soldiers in the king's army probably didn't even know how to read. Jory certainly didn't.

"So what about magic?" she said to distract him.

"Each person's magic has a different color, and—"

"—A dragon rider's magic always corresponds to the color of his or her dragon," she finished, smiling. She had read this a hundred times. It always came up in the old tales about the riders.

He raised his eyebrows. "So you really can read." Then he said abruptly, "There's someone I want you to meet."

She was too shocked to say anything, so she just followed him as he turned around and began walking to the stables, of all places. Their footsteps stirred up small clouds of dust from the ground.

It turned out that they were heading towards the stables after all. She had never seen any horse-house so large. Siv wrinkled her nose at the smell of manure and soiled straw. Murtagh walked a winding path, managing to keep his boots clean. He led her to one of the stalls in the very back. In it, there stood a huge gray horse with surprisingly gentle eyes. His mane was silky and obviously well-brushed. In fact, Siv couldn't see a speck of dirt on him.

"He's beautiful." And she truly meant it. "Can I…?"

"Go ahead."

She reached up, slowly so as not to startle him, and brushed his nose with her fingertips. Whinnying, he nuzzled into her hand, his wet nose cool against her skin.

"What's his name?"

"Tornac."

"Tornac," she whispered to the horse. "You have a good name." Then she turned to Murtagh. "I love him. Can I have him?"

He chuckled. "Tornac was my first friend."

She smiled. "So….He's gorgeous, but I don't understand why you're showing him to me now." Then she had a thought. "Wait…. You're not saying that I'm your second? Friend, I mean?"

He looked at her for a long while. "Perhaps."

She smiled. "Coming from you, that's as good as 'I love you.'"

He laughed, and she joined him.

Then she stopped. "But isn't there anyone else?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't you have any other friends, besides a horse? Don't you have any human you care about," she grinned, "besides me, that is?"

"Tornac-"

"Besides him!"

He looked at her, and a chill ran down her back. For the first time since they met, she saw indecision flood those normally sure eyes.

At last, he said, "I'm betrothed."

Siv's jaw dropped. "What?"

"Not by choice."

"Oh." She tilted her head.

"I don't love her," he sighed. "I've never even met her, just seen her at parties."

Siv knew the feeling. "Why do they do this to us?" she whispered.

"Us?"

She blushed. "Us…as in us human beings."

There was a long silence.

"Do you have a girl, back at home?" he asked.

She blushed even redder. "What? Of course I don't!"

He raised his eyebrows. "I've never heard someone so angry at being accused of having a lover."

She spluttered. "Yes…well…I…."

"Is it because you like men, or is it just because you're a girl?"

She shut her mouth and stared at him in disbelief. No one knew. No one but Bryn and Bera. No one.

But then he laughed. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't jest about that. You must get teased often for looking like a girl."

Oh. Well that explained that.

"I do not look like a girl!" she insisted.

He just smiled at her.

She glared and walked back towards the barracks. For just a second, as she left the stable, she thought she saw the captain out of the corner of her eye. Turning, she looked around. Of course, no one was there. She stared for a long while, then kept going.

[Scene IV]

But she couldn't get to sleep. The shock was still too close. The shock of thinking Murtagh had figured out what she really was. It set her to wondering what he would do if he knew. Would he tell the captain? Would he stop training with her? Or would everything stay as it was? She had no idea. She couldn't figure Murtagh out. Was she really his friend? Yes, she decided. Yes she was.

Sighing, she took out a quill, ink, and a sheet of moldy parchment that she kept below her pillow. As she did so, she brushed her hands over the letters Bera had sent her and smiled. She still didn't know why she couldn't visit Bera. But it didn't stop Siv from writing to her twice a month.

Using her knees as a sort of table, she dipped her quill in the ink and began. She spoke of her made-up adventures, of how she had learned dark magics and slain a hundred men with her bare hands. But mostly, she spoke of Murtagh. Of his joke about her being a girl. Of his laughter. And then, she found herself talking about his eyes. How they followed her. How they looked at her with such depth and darkness. How they-

"Who are you writing to?" whispered a voice from below her.

She nearly spilled her ink. She had thought everyone else was asleep. Looking down, she saw Erik with his elbows perched on the bed, watching her. His black hair was all ruffled and mussed up.

She sighed. "Shouldn't you be asleep?"

"Shouldn't you?"

She sighed again. "You've got me there." Looking down at her letter, she smoothed out a corner and said, "It's to a friend. From back home."

"Oh," he said, looking down at the floor. "I didn't know you had friends."

"Well. Thanks."

He blushed so red as to make dragon scales look pink. "That's not what I meant! I just...I've never had a friend."

She chuckled quietly. "But I'm your friend, Erik."

She didn't think it was possible, but his blush deepened. Then he smiled. And Erik's smile was always contagious.


	7. Her Name, Killer

Two days later, the captain called her aside when the soldiers were heading to training.

"Spar amongst yourselves," he said, then looked at her with his inscrutable eyes. "Devan, to my quarters."

Siv had never seen the captain's quarters before. She had pictured them being large to match Frey's ego, but they were quite modest. One small room. A bed, a desk, a chamber pot, a bookcase, and a rack of weaponry. As the captain took a seat in and motioned her to another, Siv gazed at the books with longing. She was surprised to see them there. She had never really pictured him as the reading sort. But there was Cald's _History of Elven Rulers since Ylde the Mighty_, Llyr's _Compendium of Pronounced Dreams_, and Daene's _Riders: A Fallen Age_. He even had Agon's _Blodh Burthr_, which she had never laid eyes on.

"You've been given an assignment."

And there was Rheddan's _Death of the Immortal_! She had begged her parents to buy it for her on her birthday.

"Look at me."

And she did. The books vanished from her mind.

"You have an assignment."

"I—"

"Do not make me repeat myself again."

Her heart began to pound in her ears.

"Where?" was all she could say.

"You will travel alone up the Ramr River and deliver a message to an outpost stationed there."

Her hands were shaking and she couldn't seem to stop them.

"Why me?" Her mouth was too dry. "I'm not a real soldier." And she realized it was true. She was just a girl, just a stupid little girl, in over her head. Because there was real, true danger in traveling alone.

"This is a personal request of King Galbatorix."

She was on her feet before she could stop herself. "What?"

"Sit down."

She sat down.

"Why?"

"You are done asking questions."

She didn't hear him. "Why alone?"

His careful eyes fixed to hers. "Would you rather Lord Murtagh travel with you?"  
And then she knew. She really had seen the captain as she left the stables that night. He had watched them, together. And he had told the king. Was this punishment? Something to separate them? But, why? What did the king care who his friend's son was close to?

"No, Sir," she said.

[Scene II]

"What was that?" Erik asked as she made her way into the circle around the sparring pair.

"I've been given an assignment." She stared straight ahead, not looking at him. Not looking at anything. "I'm to leave tomorrow at dawn."

"What?" he hissed.

"Tomorrow. At dawn." She was talking to herself now.

"Why? Why you?"

She looked at him then, at his huge blue eyes, at his curly black hair. She looked at him and she remembered the vicious glare he had given Murtagh. "I don't know."

"Will it be all right?" His eyes were clear and sweet.

She stared at the ground, clenching her fists. "Yes. It will be just fine."

[Scene III]

"No it won't be 'just fine,'" Murtagh said when she told him. "Can't you see what's going on?"

"No," she said. "I can't. Because it doesn't make any sense. Why would the king care?"

He sighed. "The king does not like me to become attached to anything."

"Why?" She was angry now, angry at Murtagh for telling her nothing, angry at the captain for jeering at her, angry at the king for…for whatever reason.

"And why should I tell you that?"

That hurt her. She looked into his eyes and opened her mouth. "Because we're friends."

He turned his back to her. "Are we? I know nothing about you. Because you never tell me anything. I don't even know your name."

That was the first time she truly wanted to tell it to him. She grabbed him by the arm. "We are friends!" Then she deflated. It was true. He knew nothing about her. She knew nothing about him. "We're friends."

Then silence. A long one.

"You don't have to tell me," she said, letting go of his arm. "I don't want to fight with you."

"This isn't a fight."

"Yes it is."

He turned to face her, and his eyes were darker than she had ever seen them. "If this were a fight, my sword would be at your throat. You know nothing of fighting. You know nothing of battle. And if you take this assignment, you will die because of that."

"It's just a delivery."

"No. It's not. Trust me, this is a trap."

"Why would he try to kill his own soldier?"

"You think he cares about one soldier? He would sacrifice his own child, if he had one, to get what he wants. And what he wants is to keep you away from me."

"Why should you care what happens to me? Because, according to you, we're not friends!"

He grabbed her by the shoulders with both hands. "You need to get out of here. You need to run away, or you will die."

"I won't," she said, pushing him away from her. She had already run away once. She wasn't going to do it again. Besides, he had taught her well. She would not die. She would not die. She would not die. She walked toward the barracks and did not look back.

[Scene IV]

They had given her a horse, a pack of food, a water skin, a flag bearing the king's insignia, and a piece of parchment pressed closed with the king's seal. She had taken her sword and the clothes on her back. Those things were all that accompanied her as she rode up the Ramr River. It was slow going; she had only the one horse and no opportunity to switch, so she made sure not to work it too hard. Her destination was a little less than halfway up the river, just south of Bullridge, about ten leagues away from Uru'baen. She expected the journey to take about a fortnight.

She wasn't far off. A fortnight and three days. That's all it took, and she was nearly done with her first assignment. The whole time, she was thinking about what Murtagh had said. Could it truly be a trap? Something told her she should trust in his judgment, but she just didn't want to. She had to complete the mission anyway, trap or no.

It took her a while to find the outpost. They were well hidden, within the trees of a small forest. Light dripped through the trees like water, landing dappled on the leaf-covered ground.

Siv slowly dismounted her brown horse, sore from the ride, and lifted the flag from the horse's saddlebags. But just then, something made her stop. Murtagh's words echoed in her head. "Trust me, this is a trap." She returned the flag and unsheathed her sword.  
To the left of the outpost, there was a small hill, hidden from their view by a large tree. She crept to the cover there, avoiding clumps of leaves, making as little noise as possible. "Trust me, this is a trap."

She put her back to the tree, trying to make herself small, and listened.

The men beneath her were chattering like little birds. Except for the fact that they were big humans with swords.

"Nah, I say it's Deynor. Best leader we ever got," said a deep voice.

"Ajihad's better." This from another man, with a rough voice.

"How d'ya figure?" The first one again.

"Well, look at us during Deynor's time. No magicers—"

"There were too!" This came from another voice, high-pitched, barely more than a child.

"How'd you know, boy. You wasn't even livin' back then, I'd wager."

She could just imagine him blushing and looking away.

"Like I said, no magicers, naught more than slaves to the dwarves. The Varden is better off without him."

The Varden? These people were members of the Varden? Murtagh was right; this was a trap. She had to get out, had to, had to do something! She tried to remember how many men she had seen in the outpost. No more than six. But no fewer either. Impossible to fight all of them. She'd have to sneak back.

But just then, the man with the rough voice said, "Oy now, is that a horse?"

"Where?"

"Right there, idiot. Right there!"

"So it is."

"But whose is it?" asked the boy.

Siv's heart pounded in her throat.

"Not one of ours."

Silence then. She heard them walking about, searching for her. She had to get to the horse. It was her only chance. Slowly, carefully, she moved one foot. Then the other.

"You, boy, check that tree there."

Her palms were sweating so much she could barely hold her sword.

Then, the boy walked in front of her. He couldn't be older than fifteen. He had sandy blond hair. And blue eyes. Like Erik's. She knew what she had to do.

Her training took over, and she lunged forward, driving her sword right into his heart. It went in hard, even with all the strength she had behind the blow, barely coming out through his back. His eyes widened, more out of surprise than pain. Then he screamed.

They were on her in a moment, five men clutching swords. None of them children. All of them huge. She turned and ran, down the hill. She had to reach the horse, couldn't die now, not like this, not like this. Heart beating, beating, beating. Heaving breaths, no time to stop. Had to reach the horse. Had to reach the horse. Had to—

A shout split the air. At first she thought it was hers. But no, it was deeper, rougher than her voice could ever be. But she couldn't stop now. She glanced over her shoulder. And there he was, his sword red with blood, those dark eyes blazing with a fire she had never seen.

Murtagh.

Only one of the men was still chasing her, most having turned to face Murtagh. But he was gaining on her now. She had never been good at running. Only one chance. He was right on top of her, reaching towards her. She whirled around and forced her sword up through his gut and out his back, catching him by surprise.

No time to stop.

Shaking his body from her blade, she jumped past him, running towards Murtagh.

He had killed another. Only two remained breathing. Siv got one from behind before he had time to turn. Murtagh spun about and, with one blow, severed the other's head.

It was over.

She dropped her sword and fell to her knees. She reached up and felt blood on her face and let out a laugh, a high-pitched, manic thing that bubbled up from inside her like blood from a wound. All she could see was that boy's eyes. Blue, blue. Blue like the sea.

"So beautiful," she said.

Then she leaned over and vomited all over the forest floor, and everything went black.

[Scene V]

When she awoke, the first thing she saw was Murtagh's face. Without knowing what she was doing, she reached up and cupped it in her hands, smiling like a babe to its mother.

She felt something hot on her forehead and realized that he was wiping it with a wet cloth.

Then the boy's eyes flashed in her mind again, and she began to cry, great heaving sobs. She sat up and grasped onto the only thing within reach: Murtagh. She clutched at him, pressing her face against his chest, closing her eyes. Trying to hide from the world.

"I killed him," she said, her voice just a small quiver. "He had blue eyes. Like Erik."

They stayed like that for a long while, her clinging to his shirt, him sitting there with his arms at his sides, until Siv's sniffling eventually stopped. She looked up at Murtagh then. He was staring at her with those dark eyes. She felt like he could tell anything about her, just by looking. Even her name.

"I'm sorry," she said, letting him go.

"I'm sorry too. For not coming sooner. I waited three days, because I was mad at you, because I wanted you to see that I was right. I had to run Tornac hard to catch up with you."

"Why?"

He paused. "Why what?"

"Why did you come?"

He brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. "Because you're my friend."

She smiled. Then she began to cry again.


	8. Her Name, Love

The captain called her to spar four times in a row, until she was too tired to hold her sword up. It was obvious that she was supposed to have died on that trip. But no one could complain directly when she returned, saying she had sent the message. So the captain punished her in other ways. Punished her for the crime of surviving.

Murtagh had returned first, so they would not arrive at the same time. When she had asked him what his excuse for leaving was, he had just shrugged. That worried her. She knew he would be in trouble with someone, even if she didn't understand why. Why the king took such an interest in him.

He had tried to convince her to run away.

"You'll just be sent out again. Into another trap."

"Well then I'll have to survive again." She had sighed. "Listen, I'm not leaving. That would make me a deserter, and then the king would have a real excuse to kill me."

"He doesn't need an excuse. He's the king. He could have you dragged off to a dungeon if he wanted."

"But he won't. If he were going to, he would have just done that right away, not messed about with a trap."

He had glared at her silently.

"Besides, we'll just have to convince them that it scared me away from you."

"And how will we do that? Stop practicing?"

It hurt to consider. That was their only time together.

"No. We'll just move where we practice. Every night, a new spot. And I can, I don't know, stuff a pillow under my bed to make it look like I'm asleep."

"Brilliant," he'd scoffed.

"I'll watch carefully, to make sure I'm not followed. We'll be quieter."

"All right, all right. I can tell you're not going to give this up. We'll do it your way."

And that was that.

In the barracks, Erik was getting worse. She had come back to find him covered with bruises, walking stiffly. But when he saw her, his face lit up.

"Devan, You're here! You're alive!" Then he had run forward, as if to hug her, but stopped short, wincing.

Not knowing what to do, she had reached up and rubbed his head.

"I'm here now. It's all right. You're all right."

"I thought you were dead. You'd been gone so long." She had been shocked to see that he was crying.

"It was a long trip. Don't worry about me."

She was worried about him, though.

He barely spoke beyond those few sentences for the next two weeks, not to her, not to anyone. But he always sat with her during meals.

The third week, she managed to break his silence with questions.

"Why did your father force you to join the army if you were his heir?"

"He wanted it to 'make me into a man.'" Erik looked at his gruel while speaking, stirring it listlessly.

"And why would he think you weren't? I know how much pain you can take."

He frowned and dropped his spoon into the bowl, pushing it away.

"Because—" He seemed to realize what he was saying and closed his mouth, his ears turning bright red. "Nothing. I don't know."

She nodded. But it made her wonder.

[Scene II]

She lunged forward, driving her training sword toward his chest, but he turned his body side faced and dodged. She flicked to the left to strike him in the head, but he lifted his own sword at the last minute. The thunk of wood on wood clacked out, loud in Siv's ears. Her midsection was open to him, she knew, but she couldn't get her blade there fast enough, and Murtagh hit her in the chest with his free hand. She stumbled backward.

"Hey!"

"It's a battle; I can do whatever's necessary to win," he said, smirking.

So she dropped her sword and jumped forward, tackling him to the ground. She landed with her legs straddling his body, pressing him into the dirt. A cloud of dust rose around them.

"Does this count as my win?" she asked hopefully. She had never beaten him before.

"No," he said. "I'm not dead yet." And with that he grabbed her head and rolled her over before coming to rest on top of her, with his legs straddling her now. He put his practice sword to her throat.

"Yield," she moaned, and he dropped his sword to the side.

Then she realized that there was a man sitting on top of her in a very suggestive position, gazing into her eyes. It didn't help that they were both dripping with sweat. To her chagrin, she blushed and turned her head away from him.

He laughed and rolled off of her. She sat up. They were next to each other.

"You really do look like a girl, you know," he said, looking up at the stars. "Especially when you turn red like that."

"Well," she said, forcing her voice to drip with sarcasm, "make sure not to fall in love with me, then."

He furrowed his eyebrows. "I'll never fall in love with you."

There was no joke in his voice, and that stung her more than his words themselves. Her throat swelled shut, and she was about to cry, but no she couldn't because it didn't make any sense. It didn't make sense! Why should this hurt her? She would not let this hurt her. But a vision of the noble she had danced with at the ball swam its way into her mind, and she was there, and he was gazing at Bera, not her, not her, not her.

She looked at him, at his black hair, his tanned skin, and those dark eyes. He was still staring at the stars, and they reflected in those eyes like a million drops of water shimmering on obsidian.

"It's been a year."

"What?" her voice cracked, and he turned to look at her. She wiped her nose and glared back at him. "What?" she said again.

"Since we met.

"Oh." Had it really been that little time? It seemed like ages.

Behind her, a bush rustled. They both jumped to their feet and walked away from each other. It was probably just a bird, but, after what had happened with the captain, they didn't want to take chances. To make it seem like they had both just decided to go out strolling separately and bumped into each other, she walked around the training field for a while before returning to the barracks.

When she got back, she climbed carefully onto her bunk, trying not to wake the others. She didn't notice till she was almost up that Erik was not in his bed. She stared at the rumpled covers for a long moment, then kept climbing.

But she couldn't get to sleep. Murtagh's words rang in her head. I'll never fall in love with you. I'll never fall in love with you. I'll never—

Sighing, she pulled the ink, parchment, and quill from under her pillow again and began a letter to Bera. She had not written her in over a month, being too busy with almost getting murdered by the king. But the letter did not help. Because it was about him again.

"He said he would never love me. Why does that make me so sad, Bera?"

She was about to scratch it out when she turned her head and saw Erik, leaning on her bed and reading what she had written. Their eyes met, his blue, hers brown. His filled with hurt.

"Devan—" he said. Too loudly. She hissed at him and motioned toward the door. Putting away the letter, she climbed back down from the bed, her bare feet cold against the wooden floors.

Together, they walked, away from the others, away from the barracks, away from any listening ears.

Then he turned on her. The hurt was gone from his eyes, replaced by a fire she had seen only twice before.

"What's wrong, Erik?"

"I saw you," he spat the words as a snake spits venom.

"Erik," she stood frozen, unsure what to do, only guessing at how he could be mad at her.

Then everything seemed to pour out of him at once, halfway between a confession and an angry rant. "I followed you, to know where you go at night. Don't think I haven't noticed. Don't think they haven't either. I saw you. I saw you with him. And then, that letter…. You're…you're…." The words bubbled from his lips like foam from a rabid dog. "You're in love with him!"

And she knew, then, that he was right. Completely right. That's why it had hurt her, that's why. She was in love with Murtagh. And, at the same time, she knew why Erik was angry. Why his father had sent him to the army. "Yes." There was no point in denying it, now that she had realized, and realized he had realized.

The fight seemed to rush from him all at once. He stood there, wiping at his eyes, sobbing, a perfect child. She went to him, then. Took his hand in hers, hugged him close, repeating over and over that it was all right, that he was all right.

As she stood there, she realized that some sick part of her was happy. Happy that someone, someone could love her, even if it was for all the wrong reasons. Erik thought she was a boy, of course. What would he do if she told him? Would he back away, disgusted? Would he tell the captain? Or would he accept her? She couldn't risk it.

But she didn't know what to say, past what she had already said. Would it comfort him to know that he was one of her greatest friends? Or would that just reinforce the fact that she didn't love him? All of this was new to her, and she felt frightened, somehow, as though she were walking on broken glass, and one wrong step would send a shard deep into her flesh. In the end, she decided it was best to say nothing more.

It grew colder, and, at last, Erik shrugged out of her hug, and walked back to the barracks, not looking to see if she followed. She stood there for a while longer, thinking. And hating herself. It was cruel, cruel, to be happy now, because of Erik's love, but she couldn't stop. Of course, it hurt, too. Hurt her to know that she was hurting her friend. But still….

She walked back to the barracks. As she climbed into bed, she realized just how much the place stank of sweat and mold. Her last thought before falling asleep was of her day off tomorrow, of the warm bath she would take. She wondered if Erik would ever walk with her again.


	9. Her Name, Woman

Erik hadn't spoken to her since that night. She understood his desire to avoid her. But still…. He often shot her glances, some of them angry, some terribly sad. She missed his warm smiles, his nervous laughs, the tips of his ears blushing. Perhaps she would never see them again.

Murtagh's request came out of nowhere. It was a cold night, utterly silent. No birds out, not that there were many birds in Uru'baen to begin with. No snow yet, but you could feel it hanging over you, wanting to fall. They were both sweating, despite the briskness of the air.

During their rest in between lesson and sparring, he turned to her and said, "Would you go to a ball with me?"

She stared at him, trying to work out what he had said. Because it made absolutely no sense. "What?" It was more of a statement than a question.

He repeated his question. She repeated hers.

He sighed. "I know how it sounds."

"No, you really don't."

"It sounds insane."

"Raving mad."

"Hear me out." He paused and raised one eyebrow at her. She nodded. "There's a ball tomorrow night. It's a partners' ball. I am being…forced," he growled the word, "to attend. And I have no one to go with."

"So you thought you'd just show up with a boy and see how things went?"

"I said hear me out." She sighed and nodded again. "I have no one to go with, and—"

She interrupted again. "I thought you were betrothed." This fact had been haunting her recently, killing what little hope she had that anything between them could ever work out.

That gave him pause. "Her parents don't want us to meet until the wedding. I don't know why. And they keep putting off the actual ceremony. I get the feeling she doesn't want to marry me."

"Well," said Siv, shrugging. "Who can blame her?"

He glared.

"I'll shut up now."

"I have no one to go with. I don't have many friends, particularly not women."

"There's one small problem with your plan: I'm not a woman." The words came out of her mouth easily, hardly a lie in them. She was used to seeing herself as a boy.

He grinned. "But you look like one. Maybe not a woman, but a girl, at least."

She knew what he was asking then. "Oh no. No, no, no," she said. "I'm not going to dress up as a girl and go to a ball with you."

He frowned. "All right."

"What?"

"I won't force you. I know it was a bad idea," he said. "I just thought that a change of pace would be good for you."

"Wait." She had expected him to put up more of a fight. As dangerous as it was, she liked the thought of Murtagh looking at her as a man looks at a woman. "That's it?"

"Yes," he stood up, holding his sword and offering her a hand.

"All right," she said, a rush of blood pulsing through her head. She looked at the ground, blushing a furious red. "I'll do it."

He raised his eyebrows, and she wondered for a moment if he had been joking about the whole thing.

"Very well."

And so they set to making plans.

[Scene II]

They met again the next night, in a different spot. They were always meeting in different spots now, spots they planned out at the previous nights' meetings. This time, however, instead of a sword, Murtagh brought a pile of clothes. Not women's clothes, there would be time enough for that later. What he brought her was servants' cloth. This was to get her into the castle. And it was there that she would begin her transformation from boy into woman. Or back to woman, rather.

It was cold again that night, though it was not so late. Tiny snowflakes floated from the sky to settle on the ground. She was not dressed for this. She owned only the one pair of clothes, and they were more tattered than a beggar's rags. This was the purpose behind the disguise to get into the castle. She could no more pass for a servant in her current state than for a dragon.

When Murtagh handed her the clothes, she could not help but marvel at the softness against her fingers. They were simple: cotton trousers, a cotton tunic, and a cotton cloak. The tunic was a deep blue. She smiled at him.

"Put them on, and we can go."

A problem presented itself. "Don't look while I change." Would men care about other men seeing them naked? She guessed not, but he just nodded and turned away. Quickly, she removed her ratty clothing and slipped the tunic over her head, then pulled the trousers around her legs. They fit well. Murtagh had done his job. When she had finished fastening the cloak about her shoulders, she pulled up the hood and told him she was done.  
"Do I look like a servant?" she asked, spreading her arms wide to let the cloak open.

"You don't smell like one," he said, smiling. "You'll need a bath before I let you wear my mother's dress."

"What? I bathed three days ago!" Then what he had said registered, and she gasped. "Your mother's…."

"I only have the one. I managed to smuggle it away before Galbatorix had her belongings burned." He grimaced.

"Burned?"

"I think I've mentioned it before. My mother's red dress."

"Murtagh, I can't."

"It's the only dress I own. It should fit you well enough; you two are of a size."

"Murtagh…."

He looked at her, his eyes hard. And she said nothing more.

It was earlier than they usually met. They needed time to prepare, and the party would last only so long. There were still stragglers training in the yard, but no one looked twice at the two of them. A noble and his servant. Nothing unusual.

The same was true when they reached the castle. Some stopped to greet Murtagh, but none of them spoke to Siv.

The inside of the fortress was as gloomy as the outside. The walls were black. The floors were a black. There was almost no noise, just the echoes of footsteps and faraway voices. The ball, of course, was not taking place here, so there was not even a trace of music or laughter. In fact, the dark halls felt as if they had never heard laughter at all. He led her to the servants' quarters, where there was a public bathing room. He waited outside, while she scrubbed away the grime on her skin, sighing at the scent of floral soaps. She was relieved to find that the room was empty. Empty and dark and filled with a strange sickness.

Murtagh's rooms were no different. She hadn't really expected them to be. They were small, just a bedroom and a sitting room. And in the bedroom, just a bed, a wardrobe, and a desk. And in the sitting room, just a few seats and a table. There were, however, bookcases. She counted ten before Murtagh forced her attention away. She smiled at him as he talked.

"I bought some things at the market yesterday." He grinned as he said it and pointed to a set of paints, a bottle of perfume, a pair of simple saffron shoes, and a blonde wig. She went to it and ran her fingers through the glossy hair. It was too straight, too yellow, for her taste; it made her miss her own wavy brown hair. She turned her attention to the paints and grimaced. She had never enjoyed making up her face. Her hands would always shake, and it would splotch everywhere.

Murtagh went to the wardrobe and took out a beautiful scarlet dress. It had long, billowing sleeves, embroidered with golden silk threads. The cords that bound the corset were golden as well, trailing down the back like a trickle of thick, tawny water. The material was velvety and rich. She wanted to touch it, to pet it, to feel its softness.  
Seeming to sense her desire, he offered it to her. She stepped forward, hesitant, then took it in her arms and cradled it to her cheek before she realized what she was doing. She looked up. His eyes held something in them that she had never seen before, that she couldn't quite identify. She lowered the dress. To cover up her embarrassment, she turned away.

"I'm going to need help with the corset," she said, blushing furiously.

He chuckled. "I'll try."

"Now, go away. I need to get ready."

And for the first time in over a year, she began to dress herself as a girl.

She painted her face first, using a small hand mirror that Murtagh had produced. Pale skin, black to line the eyes, and red cheeks. She managed not to smudge anything too badly, despite being out of practice. Perhaps holding a sword had given her the delicate touch she needed.

The wig next. It slipped on easily over her short hair. She pinned it down, then dabbed on some perfume, not too much. Bera had been a master at getting the right amount of perfume, not so much that it flooded the nose.

Then she took off her clothes and removed the chest binding that Bryn had given her, gulping in a deep breath of air. Wrapping it up, she hid it among the servants' clothes. She turned to look at the dress again and ran a finger over its softness. She imagined Murtagh's mother wearing it, with a little Murtagh holding onto the skirts, and laughed. Being careful not to mess up the wig, she slipped the dress over her head. It clung to her body like a spider web, floaty and light.

She took another deep breath and called for Murtagh.

When he saw her, his eyes widened for just a second, and she blushed as red as the dress. They were silent for a long while. Then she turned around and pointed to the corset, too embarrassed to speak.

He wove the cords together with a graceful touch she marveled at. And then he pulled so tightly that she gasped. She had forgotten how much this hurt.

"I'll never understand how they can wear this," she whispered, breathless. And it was true.

He chuckled and tied the final knot.

She turned to face him, completely transformed back into a girl.

"St—stop staring!" she said, looking at the floor. It was easy to play the embarrassed boy, as she was more than a little embarrassed, herself.

"You should have been born a girl," he said, laughing.

"Thanks," she said sarcastically. But she meant it. She liked something about the way he was looking at her. She liked that he was, for the first time, seeing her as a woman.

And then he was looking at her breasts.

She covered them with her arms. "I cut some of the cloth from the servant clothing," she said, flustered.

"I see." He didn't press the issue. "There's one thing more."

"What's that?"

"Your voice. Luckily, you're still young—"

"I'm not young. I'm a man grown!" she insisted.

He laughed at the absurdity of a boy in a dress and wig calling himself a man.  
"How old are you, boy?" he asked.

"Fifteen," she said, indignantly. In actuality, she was eighteen, but there was no way she could pass for a true man.

"Then I am four years your senior."

She crossed her arms and scowled.

"Still, you need to make your voice a bit higher."

It was hard, at first. Truly hard. She had been speaking as a boy for so long that she had forgotten what her actual voice sounded like. But after a few minutes' practice, she managed to get it back, though it sounded slightly rougher, cracked.

"How's this?" she asked.

"Good."

And with that they were ready.

There were few people out in the streets that night. Most were at work in their homes, for it was too early yet to sleep. There's something eerie about a city in the dark. During the day, it's full of people, people, who make the city what it is. At night, with the people missing, it's like the city's soul is gone. And Uru'baen had a dark soul to begin with. They walked in silence.

When they drew near the ball, they knew immediately. The sound of laughter and music spilled over them like waves, and light is brighter when surrounded by blackness.

There were a few people outside the ball house, in pairs, giggling with each other or kissing in shadowy corners. She blushed to see them, and Murtagh ignored them. They walked in through the main doors.

If the sounds outside were like waves, this was a tsunami. Colors picked at her eyes from every direction: periwinkle blues, soft lavenders, rich golds, and dashing reds. Twirling gowns and coats, bright drinks and cloths. Great chandeliers hung in every corner of the room. But the largest one was in the middle of the ceiling, sparkling with delicate crystals and passionate flames.

She had seen the like a hundred times, but never had it seemed so grand.

Her awe was good; it was useful. For Murtagh looked at her astonished face and chuckled, deep in his throat. Because, to him, this was her first time at a ball.

"You like it?"

"I—no," she said, closing her mouth, which had been hanging open.

They walked into the room, the glittering room, and chose a table to sit at. The chairs looked like embroidered cloth, so ornate were they. She propped her face on her elbow.

"So," she said. "What now?"

"Now we sit and wait for this farce to end."

Well, that was no fun.

"Can't we at least get drunk?"

He raised his eyebrow. "I don't think it would do you well to have a headache for tomorrow's training."

Something was changing in her. For the first time in her life, she felt excited to be at a party. Perhaps it was the fact that she was in costume, or perhaps that Murtagh was with her. But she felt that this night was not a night for sitting.

"Maybe we should dance together. Don't you think the nobles would be suspicious if we just do nothing?"

"Oh?" he scoffed. "Then maybe we should kiss as well."

She flushed. It was the second joke she had ever heard him tell. And then she had to imagine them kissing, the feel of his lips on hers, his tongue. She flushed redder. She had never been kissed before.

"Well, I'm going to get something to drink."

But just then, someone started to ruffle her hair, and her wig almost fell off. Her hands jumped to her head, and she pulled it back down so hard that it fell and covered her eyes. She quickly fixed it and turned to look at the culprit.

And there stood Bera. She was more beautiful than Siv remembered, her hair a shining gold, her eyes blue as deep water sparkling in sun. But then she remembered that this was Bera, this was Bera. She threw her arms around her.

"Bera," and she was crying. "Bera. Bera!"

"Hello, my crunchable little morsel. I never expected to see you again. And dressed as a woman, too, how delightful."

"Yes. You may call me Lady," she wracked her mind for a woman's name that was not her own, "Alfhild. Lady Alfhild." Her mother.

Bera smiled, then looked past her. "And who is your handsome friend? Be polite, O Great Lady Alfhild: make the introductions!"

Something cold wormed its way into Siv's chest. She turned to face Murtagh, who was staring at her, eyebrows furrowed, his expression unreadable.

"Bera, this is Murtagh. Murtagh—"

"And I have the most pleasurable honor to be Bera, Daughter of Anre!" With a flourish, she curtsied and held out her hand for him to kiss. He ignored it. "Quite the gentleman, I see."

Siv laughed, feeling very grateful towards Murtagh for some reason. "He really is."

"So," she sat down in the remaining seat at their table. Siv clenched her teeth, sensing something wrong here. "Tell me about yourself, Lovely Sir."

"He doesn't like to talk much," Siv said. Murtagh shot her a glance.

"Aww, how sad. Not even to beautiful women?"

"Sure, but we'd have to find a beautiful woman first," said Siv, trying to ignore the chill working its way down her spine.

Bera laughed. "Alfhild, dear, why don't you go get us a few drinks, while I try to make our handsome knight speak?"

"I'm not thirsty," said Murtagh.

Bera clapped. "And there we go: he speaks. Of his own accord, too. Shame, I was looking forward to tying you up and torturing you to make you talk."

Siv stood up. "I'm going to get drinks."

"Perfect! Thank you, love."

She needed to be alone. She needed some air. She needed something. She started to run, out the door, into the night. And when she was alone, she let herself cry, and soon she was sobbing, and it was Bera, it was Murtagh, it was this place, it was her. Because how could she compete with Bera? If Bera wanted Murtagh, and of course she would, of course, of course, then Siv had no chance. Murtagh would never love her. He would love Bera, and she would be alone again, alone, alone.

But soon it was time to go back, or they would be suspicious. Taking three deep breaths, gulping at the air, she stood up. Her hands were shaking. She wiped furiously at her eyes. Steeling herself, she turned around.

Murtagh was standing right behind her. Her head felt like it was rushing forward, and she thought she might fall over. There was something in his eyes, as he looked at her, something she didn't recognize.

"I," she stammered. "I was just…."

He put his hand on her shoulder. "Let's go."

She nodded.

[Scene III]

She walked back to the barracks alone, having said goodbye to Murtagh in the castle, where she returned his mother's dress and got back the servant's clothing.

Erik was awake. He watched her as she walked to her bunk. She gave him a smile that did not reach her eyes. He turned away. As she climbed up to her bed, the smile faded from her face.


	10. Her Name, Master

She was getting better. One trick here, another there, and she could win most of the sparring matches against her fellow trainees. She even took down Gunnar, Jory's massive sycophant, once. It wasn't that she was stronger than he. But she had learned to be quick and clever in her actions. And it was all thanks to Murtagh. A year and a few months, and she had turned from a girl to a true soldier.

But bad luck turns even the greatest warriors to novices.

They were sparring, the two of them, Siv and Erik, during the captain's training. She always went easy on him, trying to save his pride, though perhaps it was cruel.

They stood across from each other, swords raised. She took a few steps toward him, and he walked backwards, nearly knocking into the circle of their fellows. He stumbled, and she jumped forward, swinging towards his head. He ducked and threw a blow at her chest, which she parried. He was gritting his teeth, and the tips of his ears were red. And she couldn't help it. She smiled. His eyes widened. Then he started to strike the air wildly with his sword, trying desperately to make contact with some part of her body. She let him back her up to the edge of the circle, but she wasn't expecting him to do it so quickly, so when her back bumped into warm flesh, she swiveled her head to look.

So she didn't see the sword.

[Scene II]

She woke up later in the healing tents, her head throbbing. She tried to sit up, then moaned and fell back.

"I'm so sorry!"

She turned. Erik was by her bed.

"Shush, child," said a familiar voice. Bryn. Siv smiled, dizzy. "I'll not have any noises louder than a whisper," she boomed.

"I didn't mean to hit you, Devan. I had my eyes closed, and I was just so frustrated because I can never win anything and…and…I'm sorry."

Maybe it was the medicine, maybe the blow to the head, but Siv was drunk, or as good as. She reached up, still smiling, and cupped Erik's cheek in her hand.

"You're talking," she giggled. But it made her head pound, so she stopped and closed her eyes.

He blushed and started to stammer nonsenses.

"Oh, welcome, m'lord," said Bryn. Siv turned her head. Standing in the tent flap was Murtagh. Erik's back went stiff.

Murtagh walked in, found a seat, dragged it over to her bed, and sat, ignoring all the while Erik's vicious glare.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"He is," said Erik through clenched teeth. Murtagh looked at him with unbearably hard eyes. But Erik did not shrink back. "He doesn't need you."

"Erik, stop," she said, her voice cracking.

She saw tears forming in his blue eyes. "Why? Why do you—"

And she knew then what he was going to say. "Erik, stop!"

"That's enough, you three. Out, both of you." Bryn said. Siv suddenly felt a great rush of affection for the bustling woman.

Murtagh and Erik walked out, one after the other.

[Scene III]

Her injury was nothing serious, not a bruised brain as Siv had feared. She was out of the healing tents in a day, her headache, though terrible at first, gone.

Murtagh wanted to wait until he was sure she was fully healed before they sparred again, but she was having none of that. Eventually, he conceded.

It was on the third week after her injury that it happened.

She parried his blow, then feinted and disengaged, once, twice, three times against his blocks. And, that third time, her sword slipped past his guard and hit him lightly in the chest.

They both froze, her in a low lunge, him with his sword still in the air. She had won. She had won. She had won.

She fell to the ground, exhausted, but smiling and laughing as she went down.

"And now I can die in peace!"

He sat down next to her, and she noticed that he was grinning.

"Wait. You weren't going easy on me, were you?"

He just shrugged.

She decided she didn't care. A victory was a victory.

"That friend of yours," he said.

"Erik?"

"Yes. He's in love with you."

"I know."

"He hates me."

"Yes."

He said nothing more.

Until he played at their old game again. "What's your name?"

She thought about it. "Leon."

"Leon the dragon rider?"

"Leon the me."

"Why will you never tell me?"

And it was her turn to shrug.

Then a question formed itself on her lips, something that had haunted her sleep since the ball. She didn't mean to say it. But she did. "What did you think of Bera?"

"Your other friend?" he asked. She nodded, and he shrugged.

"Did you like her?"

"She was all right."

Siv's heart sank. "But did you like her?"

Murtagh furrowed his eyebrows. "No."

And her heart rose again.

"Oh." She smiled.

[Scene IV]

The next day, when the trainees had all gathered together, ready to spar, the captain stopped them. In a line, they waited, discipline keeping their backs straight and their heads forward. There was snow on the ground that day. Usually, they fought through the cold.

"You're still weak as women," said the captain. It was strange how the quietness of his voice continued to shock Siv. "But not as weak as the girls you once were." Well. And that was almost a compliment. Something was definitely wrong. "You may not be ready for battle, but you'll be going into it nonetheless. Half of you will be going to Dras-Leona, the others to Teirm. We'll start you off slow. You'll be doing guard duty, maybe for the rest of your lives. You'll report tomorrow to leave. Take the day off. It's your last in this home."

It happened too quickly for Siv to be surprised. She just stood there, the words still registering themselves in her brain. She would be sent to another city. Leave Uru'baen forever. Leave her city. Leave her friends. Leave….

And then she was running, searching for him among the soldiers training with wooden dummies. But he was nowhere.


	11. Her Name, Deserter

She had to wait for their meeting that night to tell him. To tell him that she would leave. Forever. And not even to become a hero. She would be pushed into some other city on guard duty, to fade into obscurity while Galbatorix's other soldiers fought the Varden.

He came to their predetermined meeting place, an alcove near the edge of the training fields, hidden by a patch of trees. His sword was in his hand, snowflakes melting on his head. She looked at him, truly looked at him. Trying to memorize that moment. His strong jaw, his delicate chin, his hard eyes, his too-long hair. She tried to smile at him, but only managed to twitch the corners of her mouth.

"Where's your sword?" he asked.

She had planned out exactly what she was going to say to him, but her words ran from her tongue at that moment, as she watched the white snowflakes settle into his black hair.

He furrowed his eyebrows. "Something's wrong."

She just nodded. She wanted to cry. But she couldn't.

"What is it?"

"I'm leaving," she said to those snowflakes, afraid to look into his eyes.

There was a long silence.

"Where?"

"Dras-Leona."

"Why?"

"I've been assigned guard duty."

Another silence.

He took a step towards her. "I'm leaving, too."

"I thought the king wanted you close to him."

"I don't care what he wants. I'm leaving. To the wilderness."

"You're running away?"

He chuckled, a harsh, dark sound. "I suppose you could call it that."

"Why didn't you do that earlier?"

He shrugged. "You hadn't beaten me yet."

And she laughed. "So you were going easy on me!" He did not smile. "That sounds awfully lonely."

He hesitated, then spoke. "I was hoping you might come with me."

"What? Go with you? Become a deserter?"

"A deserter?" He scoffed. "Are you so loyal to Galbatorix?"

"But…." She had joined to become a hero. And they had assigned her to guard duty. Maybe she could eventually work her way up to foot soldier, but it struck her then that she would never be a dragon rider, a sorceress, an assassin. She had always known. There was glory to be had on the battlefield. Just not for her.

"If you don't want to go—"

"I'll go."

She hadn't really decided until she said it. But then there was no going back.

"You will?"

"Yes."

He smiled then, and it was the warmest smile she had ever seen, even warmer than all Erik's sweet little things. Then she remembered.

"What about Erik?"

"He would never agree to come, even if I let him."

"He could die."

"On guard duty?"

Well, that was true. And he was a soldier now. He was prepared.

"All right." The words were strange in her mouth, like a new type of food, like a fresh flavor.

"There's one condition," he said.

"What? I thought you wanted me along."

"I do—if you do this one thing for me."

She had a feeling what he was going to ask. "What?"

"Tell me your name."

He looked into her eyes as he said it. She almost told him the truth then. She wanted to. Wanted to, and couldn't. But she could not think of a fake name. The names of the heroes in the stories seemed childish now, lies unworthy of him. But what lie was worthy?

"I can't. Trust me when I say that I truly cannot tell you."

"Then you're not coming," he said, turning to leave. There was a loud rustle in the trees behind them, and they both spun around to look. The trees were too dense, however, and they saw nothing.

Sighing, he kept walking, away from her, away from her forever.

She looked around, slightly frantic. Then her eyes caught on the stables.

"Tornac," she called after him.

He stopped, then laughed. "What a coincidence that you and my horse share a name. You should have told me sooner."

"Oh, it's no coincidence," she said, smiling. "Don't you remember? You named him after me."

"Right. And why would I have done a thing like that?"

"Because," she said. "I taught you everything you know about swordplay, and this was your way of thanking me."

He turned back to face her. "I think I recall. And weren't you my servant?" he grinned.

"No!"

"Yes, you definitely were. To teach a nobleman to wield a blade, you would have to be."

"Fine," she said. "I'll cede you that."

His grin turned into a smile. "I'll take it. Very well, Tornac. I'll meet you at the front gates, next morning, before dawn. For now, get some sleep. We'll both need it."


	12. Her Name

Another cold day, black as death. White as a bush of jasmine in spring, snow coated the ground.

They met at the front gates. Siv had traces of sleep in her eyes. Rubbing at them, she tried to make out Murtagh. No torches to see by in this night. But his voice pointed her in the right direction.

"Ready?" Then the whinny of a horse. The briefest outline from the now rising dawn. Tornac, and another, for her, she assumed.

"As I'll ever be." The cliché was all she could think of. Her brain ambled, sluggish in the early morning.

"Let's go."

And so they went, the sun cresting the packed snow behind them. She could just barely see the trees before them as they walked.

Almost. They almost made it out. A whisper away from freedom.

Shadows separated themselves from the dark mass of the trees, taking the form of men.

Siv stopped. The horses sensed her fear before she did. They nickered and pawed at the ground. But they did not run, even when Murtagh dropped their reins and drew his sword. It shone golden and rosy in the dawn.

There were many, too many. This was more than a simple guard. These men knew. They had had time to plan, to block off the only exit, to hide. They knew.

And then he stepped forward.

The captain.

"Frey," Murtagh growled.

As an afterthought, Siv fished her own blade from its sheath and held it light in her hand, as he had taught her. But it shook.

"Murtagh," said the captain.

She could just make out the others now. Jory, Gunnar, everyone, everyone. All her companions. All the new-turned soldiers. Except one. But no, there on the fringe was…

"Erik," she moaned.

The captain looked at her. "This is his doing, you know."

"What?"

"He saw the two of you, heard you speaking. He did what any loyal soldier would and brought the news to me." The captain's voice was quiet, not at all leering, unlike the villains in Siv's books.

"Erik," she said. "No." It sounded calm, coming from her lips. That one word. She had meant it as a scream. Of rage. Of pain. Of betrayal.

He said nothing, just looked at his feet.

"Strange," said the captain. "He mentioned only Lord Murtagh in his report. Nothing of desertion, Devan."

Siv remembered. There had been a rustling in the trees. After Murtagh had told her she couldn't come, before she had told him her "name." Erik, leaving with the information of his escape, not knowing that he was damning her as well.

She looked at her friend again, the boy with the blue eyes. He was crying, still staring at his feet. Great tears leaking to spatter the ground. She knew then why he had done it. Separating her and Murtagh, that had been his only goal. He never wanted to hurt her.

"Please, Erik." She did not know what she was asking. For she knew he could not save them.

He looked at her. And did nothing.

The sun had risen.

"Kill them," said the captain. Almost gently.

There were twelve of them, as she could see. Impossible odds.

No time to think. She swung her sword at an approaching figure, slashing open his stomach. His guts flopped out to pool on the ground.

"Not one at a time. Attack all at once," said Frey.

She and Murtagh retreated until their backs pressed against the wall. They must not be surrounded. That was the one thought racing through her head.

Time didn't seem to stop, as the books write. She felt every second of it. First came Ealdor, screaming an incoherent battle cry. With a thrust of her sword, she turned it into a different kind of scream. She could hear Murtagh beside her, fighting off many at once.

Then the mad face of Jory leered down over here.

"Hello, Girlie."

She chose to answer with her blade, cutting down towards his legs. He hopped backwards and tried to cleave her head in two with his massive claymore. Dodging, she slashed for his throat this time, but fell short. His arm was longer. He smashed her stomach with the pommel of his sword, knocking the breath out of her, making her fall to the ground on her knees. But, with a great burst of speed, she surged to her feet and stabbed him right through the mouth.

The fight went on. And on. She and Murtagh were separated now, all strategy forgotten.

And then she found herself face to face with the captain.

She attacked first, aiming to sever his head, but he parried easily and flicked his sword toward her chest. She managed to block, but only just. He engaged her sword in a great arc, spinning and spinning, their blades dancing like lovers at a ball.

And then it was over. Her sword flew from her hands, to land in the trees.

He pointed his at her neck.

"Wait!" Erik was pulling on the captain's arm. "Don't kill him. Please, don't kill Devan!"

The captain ignored him. Siv could see the muscles in his arm tense, pushing the blade forward. Erik, sweet Erik, threw his hands upon the blade, trying to pull it away. Blood ran down the silvery metal, falling in red drops onto the white snow.

"Please," he sobbed.

For a moment, none of them moved. Just a moment. The captain shot out an arm and threw Erik to the ground. Then he lunged.

The sword went in easily, like a knife through butter. Her flesh split open, just below her heart. She stood still. Then a cough rose from her, bringing a spray of blood that splattered across his face. She fell to her knees, and the sword slipped from between her ribs with silence. Black spots swam in front of her eyes.

She heard Erik's cry, saw him jump to his feet. The captain was still focused on her, looking down at his kill. Erik drew his sword. And put it through Frey's belly.

Siv saw all this. She wanted to laugh. The captain's first words came to her then. She tried to repeat them as he collapsed upon the ground. Lesson one: never turn your back on the enemy. She tried, but the only thing that came from her lungs was more blood. She felt herself slipping down, down. She landed in something cold.

Erik knelt by her side, took her hand. His tears fell onto her cheeks. They were warm. She closed her eyes.

Footsteps, muffled by the snow on the ground. Erik's hand left hers.

She looked up, almost lazily. She was so tired.

Sideways, she saw Murtagh and Erik, standing together.

"I didn't mean for this to happen," Erik said, speaking more to himself than to Murtagh. "I wanted to save him. But I couldn't. I couldn't." He looked down at her as she lay, cold, and closed his eyes. Turning back to Murtagh, he said, "Do it quickly."

Murtagh opened his throat.

She didn't understand what had happened. Nothing seemed to make sense anymore. Her head was clouded.

Then he came to her, Murtagh, running. He leaned down beside her and put a hand to her face.

"I need to get you to a healer."

"No," she coughed. She knew she was dead. It was all she knew anymore.

"You're not going to die!"

She smiled and beckoned toward him. He leaned his head over hers. She put a hand in his hair. And kissed him softly as she lay there, dying in the red snow.

"My name is Siv," she said. "Daughter of Alfhild."

"I know," he said softly, his dark eyes meeting hers. "I know."

"How?" She could barely whisper.

"I always knew you were a girl. Then, at the party…."

"Bera."

"Yes."

She smiled again and closed her eyes.

He clasped her to his body. She felt warm in his arms.

[Scene II]

She was still now. He stayed there for a long time, clutching her corpse.

Then he heard footsteps behind him, far away yet.

He had never gotten a chance to show her. He pulled the letter from his pocket. It was over a year old now.

He placed it in her cold hand.

And in the letter were the words: "_In the name of Galbatorix, King of Alagaesia, and in the name of Dorn Beran-son, Master of the Treasury, let it be known that this contract marks the binding in marriage of Murtagh, Son of Morzan, and Siv, Daughter of Alfhild._"

The footsteps were nearly on him now. He stood and went to Tornac, who was standing on the outskirts of the forest. Siv's mare had run off. But that was all right. He needed only one horse now.

[Author's Note: Since none of you realized this (probably my fault, should have made it clearer): Siv was Tornac. Reread the end of the previous chapter if that sounds ridiculous to you.]


End file.
